NEXT 
TO  THE 
GROUND 

BY 

MARTHA 
MeCULLOCH- 
WILLIAMS 


* 


GIFT   OF 
A.   F,   Morrison 


Next  to  the   Ground 


*A  babbled  of  green  fields  " 


Next  to  the 
Ground 

Chronicles    of    a 
Countryside 

By 

Martha  McCulloch-Williams 


New  York 

McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 
Mcmii 


Wit 


Copyright,  1901-1902,  by 
S.  S.  McClure  Co.,  1902, 
by  McClure,  Phillips  &  Co. 


Published,  March,  1902 
Second  impression 

GIFT  OF 


NSCRIBED  with  love  to 
The  memory  of  my  father — 
A  pattern  among  the   good 

men  and  true 
Bred  next  to  the  ground. 


The   Contents 


oreword 

/  Ploughing    . 
II  Wasps  and  Ants    . 
Ill  The  Ragged  Month 
_  IV   The  Hog     .      .      . 

V  Shooting 

VI   ®>uail  and  Partridge 

VII  The  Possum 

VIII  Night  Noises 

IX  The  Big  Snow 

X  Clearing 

XI  The  Horse 

XII  The  Oaks 

XIII  Fox-Hunting 

XIV  The  Coiu 

XV  Feathered  Folk 

XVI  Insects    . 


PAGE 

xi 

3 

35 
61 
81 

103 
123 

147 

173 


2£3 

275 


31* 
3^3 


Foreword 


iT  means  so  much  to  grow  up 
next  to  the  ground.  There 
are  no  playmates  like  grass 
and  orchard  trees ,  colts  in  the 
pasture,  chickens  in  the  yard, 
nor  any  story-tellers  to  match 
the  winds  when  they  play 
with  the  leaves,  or  dance  a  sword-dance  through 
fields  of  yellowing  wheat.  The  fields  too  are  rare 
gossips,  if  only  you  take  the  trouble  to  under- 
stand. The  pity  of  it  that  one  can  never  write 
down  the  charm  of  their  living  voices  !  They  have 
something  ahnost  epic  in  their  gossiping,  'jet  always 
something  new  to  tell. 

What  follows  does  not  claim  to  tell  all  the 
field  story.  Who  can  put  adequately  into  words, 
the  dew,  the  dawn,  the  quickening  of  springtime, 
summer's  golden  heat,  the  subtile  odors  of  ripen- 
ing grain  ?  But  it  is  a  record  at  first  hand  of 
much  that  comes  to  pass  between  the  time  of 
summer  fallows  and  the  gathering  of  next  year's 
corn. 

Idiosyncrasy  is  one  charm  of  every  countryside 
— as  one  star  differ eth  from  another  in  glory, 


Xll 


Foreword 


so  does  one  field  or  wood  or  hedgerow  differ  from 
another.  This  chronicling  is  not  meant  to  be 
universal.  It  applies  to  a  Southern  countryside 
lying  westward  of  the  Alleghanies  and  eastward 
of  the  Mississippi,  nearly  midway  between  the 
mountains  and  the  river. 

The  chronicling  has  been  a  labor  of  love — 
for  were  not  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  creeks, 
friendly  comrades  of  the  chronicler?  Partly 
because  of  delight  in  them,  partly  also  because  they 
make  up  what  seems  to  be,  in  outdoor  literature, 
an  Unknown  Country,  she  has  written  of  them 
at  some  length,  but  always  veritably,  with  no 
greater  ambition  than  to  give  the  feel  of  outdoors, 
and  the  life  of  outdoors,  as  known  to  herself. 


Ploughing 


Chapter  I 


IAWN  broadened  into  day- 
light as  the  teams  came 
out  to  the  clover  land  at 
White  Oaks.  Neighbor- 
ing fallowers  had  been  at 
work  since  they  could  see 
a  hand  before  them,  but 
Major  Baker,  the  master  of  White  Oaks,  was 
merciful  to  his  beasts,  especially  his  plough- 
beasts.  He  knew  they  got  their  best  sleep 
in  the  hour  or  two  before  dawn,  as  he  knew 
also  that  for  fallowing  they  needed  all  the 
strength  sleep  and  rest  could  give.  He  liked 
to  think  of  them  stretched  at  ease,  sometimes 
even  snoring  as  a  tired  man  snores.  Waking 
them  to  be  fed  about  the  second  chicken- 
crow,  was,  to  his  way  of  looking  at  things, 
haste  without  speed. 

The  clover  lay  upland,  in  broad  undulant 
reaches,  without  a  stump  or  a  serious  gall  to 
break  its  expanse.  Here  or  there  sparse 


4  Next  to  the  Ground 

briers  had  sprung  up  in  the  two  years  since 
it  was  seeded.  Occasionally  too  there  were 
sassafras  clumps,  and  at  the  sink-hole,  some 
remnant  wild  growths  —  hazels,  a  hydrangea 
bush,  and  a  rampant  young  sycamore  rooted  in 
a  cleft  three  feet  below  the  surface.  The  sink- 
hole had  apparently  no  reason  whatever  for 
being  where  it  was,  in  the  middle  of  a  broad 
plateau,  between  two  rich  swales,  but  the 
grass  country  of  Middle  Tennessee,  in  which 
White  Oaks  lay,  is  a  limestone  region,  full 
of  underground  streams  that  play  curious 
pranks  with  the  over-lying  earth. 

Venus,  the  morning  star,  had  showed  as  a 
point  of  white  flame  in  a  rosy  east  when  the 
ploughmen  started  out.  She  was  pale,  the 
wan  ghost  of  a  star,  as  they  filed  through  the 
draw-bars.  There  were  three  of  them,  — 
black  Dan,  the  plantation  foreman  ;  slow  Pete, 
Dan's  elder  brother;  and  Joe  Baker,  the 
Major's  eldest  son.  Each  rode  a  mule,  sit- 
ting sidewise,  and  balancing  carefully  on  the 
backbone,  and  led  two  others.  Dan  had 
three  blacks,  matched  to  a  hair,  in  height, 
color,  weight,  and  motion.  Joe  had  three 
creamy-duns,  likewise  matched.  It  is  cruel, 
and  a  waste  of  strength  in  fallowing,  to  hitch 
a  light  beast  beside  a  heavy  one,  or  harness 
together  a  quick-stepper  and  a  snail.  Slow 
Pete  had  cross-matches  — a  gray,  a  sorrel,  and 


Ploughing  5 

a  bay.  Notwithstanding,  they  went  very  well 
together.  They  were  slow  like  himself —  slow 
that  is,  by  comparison  with  the  blacks  and 
the  creamy-duns.  But  they  had  weight, 
strength,  and  steadiness,  if  they  were  not  so 
good  to  look  at.  The  strength  was  about  to 
be  severely  strained  —  they  had  a  tougher 
job  ahead  than  even  clover  fallowing.  It 
was  the  breaking  of  old  grass  land,  never  very 
mellow,  and  now  sour  and  lifeless  through 
years  of  trampling. 

There  were  no  better  teams  in  the  county, 
nor  any  in  better  condition.  Each  and  several, 
the  beasts  were  sightly,  neither  fat  nor  lean, 
active,  light  on  their  feet,  with  good  mouths, 
and  sound  in  wind  and  limb.  Major  Baker 
kept  none  but  mare-mules,  knowing  them  to  be 
sounder,  kinder,  and  hardier.  For  the  most 
part,  he  bred  them  himself,  to  make  sure  they 
had  an  infusion  of  blood.  Blood  tells  in  a 
mule,  quite  as  much  as  in  a  horse,  or  a  man. 
Dan's  blacks  were  out  of  handsome  half-bred 
mares,  and  stood  near  sixteen  hands  at  the 
withers,  yet  except  in  pulling  through  the 
depths  of  winter  mud,  they  could  not  hold 
out  with  the  creamy-duns,  whose  dams  were 
thoroughbred. 

When  it  came  to  shearing  mules  Dan  was 
an  artist.  He  had  spent  two  hours  or  more 
at  it  the  day  before.  Manes  were  trimmed 


6  Next  to  the  Ground 

to  half-inch  upstanding  fringes,  tails  banged 
to  the  pertest  tasseled  tip,  even  the  ears  had 
been  shorn  of  their  long  inner  hairs.  Dan 
had  a  firm  faith  in  witches.  Now  a  witch,  it 
is  well  known,  cannot  ride  down  a  horse  or 
mule  unless  there  are  hairs  long  enough  to 
twist  into  a  stirrup.  Dan  had  not  left  a 
single  long  one  —  hence  he  was  satisfied  the 
teams  would  thrive  and  stand  up  to  their  work, 
not  to  name  being  ever  so  much  more  bid- 
dable, since  witches,  working  unhindered,  put 
the  devil  into  even  the  best  broken  of  them. 

The  clover-shift  was  at  the  very  back  of 
the  place,  running  out  to  the  flat-woods  and 
the  crawfishy  strip,  which  had  been  so  long 
abandoned  it  was  overgrown  like  a  jungle  with 
every  sort  of  brier,  persimmon  trees,  crab- 
apples,  blackthorn  and  scrub-oak.  Birds  sang 
riotously  in  the  strip,  after  their  fashion  upon 
late  midsummer  mornings.  Their  clear  reedy 
jangle  filled  all  the  silence  of  the  fields.  Wood- 
peckers flying  in  to  plunder  the  early  apple 
trees,  made  wavering  lines  of  black  and  white 
against  the  pink  sky.  Under  the  strengthen- 
ing light,  corn  began  to  rustle  and  cast  down 
heavy  drops,  which  beat  like  fairy  drums  upon 
the  lower  blades. 

Joe  could  have  shut  his  eyes  tight,  yet 
named  the  fields  as  they  passed  them.  Each 
had  its  own  scent,  subtly  unlike  all  the  rest. 


Ploughing  7 

Tobacco  gave  out  mainly  the  fragrance  of 
newly-turned  earth  —  the  single  ploughs  were 
just  laying  it  by.  The  corn-fields  smelled  of 
ripe  tassels,  a  smell  that  is  a  sort  of  sublima- 
tion of  new-mown  hay.  Still  it  was  not  quite 
so  delicate  as  the  scent  of  the  wheat-stubble, 
where  the  young  clover  was  just  well  in  bloom. 
In  a  week  the  young  clover  would  hide  the 
stubble  entirely.  Already  there  was  but  the 
faintest  suffusion  of  yellow  underneath  its  gray- 
ish green. 

The  new  clover  did  not  look  or  smell  like 
that  which  grew  in  the  fallow  land.  Its 
leaves  were  not  only  grayer,  but  more  alive- 
looking  than  even  those  of  the  aftermath,  in 
the  end  that  had  been  fenced  off  for  mowing. 
The  aftermath  stood  mid-leg  high,  and  was 
not  gray  at  all,  except  when  dew-beads  shim- 
mered around  the  edges  of  every  leaf,  or  a 
low  wind  lifted  them  delicately  to  show  their 
silvery  undersides.  The  fence  had  been  taken 
away,  so  the  whole  spread  might  be  broken 
in  one  land,  except  across  the  other  end  where 
the  clover  winter-killed  so  badly  it  had  been 
ploughed  up,  and  sowed  with  peas  in  the 
spring. 

There  would  be  a  turn-row  between  the 
peas  and  the  clover,  that  is  to  say,  a  strip  of 
ground  left  unbroken,  and  unseeded.  The 
draw-bars  were  at  one  end  of  it.  At  the 


8  Next  to  the  Ground 

other  there  was  a  gate  leading  into  the  old 
grass.  Slow  Pete  kept  on  to  the  gate,  dron- 
ing a  dismal  hymn  as  he  went.  Dan  and 
Joe  struck  across  the  clover  almost  as  soon 
as  they  were  inside  the  bars.  Dan  was  to 
plough  in  the  pea-ground  —  still  he  thought 
it  the  part  of  wisdom  to  see  that  Joe  got 
started  right.  But  Joe  motioned  him  back  : 
"  I  know  what  I  'm  doin',"  he  said.  "  Be- 
sides, I  shan't  feel  like  I  earn  that  new  gun 
Marse  Major  's  goin'  to  buy  me,  if  my  work 
makes  you  lose  time." 

"  Aye,  yi  !  little  boss  !  But  don't  you  go 
holler  fer  me,  'ceptin*  you  drives  right  slap 
in  er  yaller  jacket's  nes',"  Dan  said,  grinning 
broadly  as  he  turned  back.  He  was  munch- 
ing a  hunk  of  cold  corn-bread.  None  of 
them  had  waited  for  breakfast.  The  cool  of 
the  morning  was  too  precious.  Each  had  a 
runlet  full  of  water  slung  at  his  back.  Dan 
and  Joe  had  filled  their  hat-crowns  with  fresh 
dewy  leaves,  but  Slow  Pete  had  stuck  to  his 
everyday  red  head-rag.  All  of  them  wore 
boots.  Ploughing  is  nothing  like  so  tiresome 
to  either  man  or  beast  barefoot,  as  when  they 
go  shod.  Fresh  sun-warm  earth  seems  to  give 
back  electric  strength  to  the  foot  that  treads 
it  naked.  But  fallowers  seldom  dare  go  bare- 
foot. Snakes  abound  in  the  clover.  So  do 
stinging  things  —  humble  bees,  yellow-jackets 


Ploughing  9 

and  their  kind  —  still  they  are  not  to  be 
named  beside  the  mysterious  danger  of  u  dew- 
poison,"  which  takes  off  the  skin  with  a  touch, 
and  leaves  a  deep,  angry  sore. 

Happily  it  is  rare,  but  the  fear  of  it  had 
made  the  ploughmen  go  shod,  and  grease  their 
mules  well  above  the  ankles,  with  neat's  foot 
oil.  The  mules  were  all  unshod,  and  har- 
nessed to  a  nicety,  with  collars  beaten  smooth 
inside,  back-bands  exactly  true,  chin-straps 
easy,  and  hames  firmly  tied.  On  top  of  all 
came  the  leather  nets  —  which  were  not  prop- 
erly nets  at  all,  but  fringes  of  long  leather 
strings,  swung  from  a  stouter  string,  and  fall- 
ing down  either  side  from  the  ears,  to  the 
roots  of  the  tail.  Swinging  back  and  forth 
they  kept  off  the  blood-suckers,  flies,  gnats, 
and  midges,  that  otherwise  would  have  run 
the  poor  beasts  wild. 

Dan  had  really  started  both  ploughs  the 
day  before,  first  looking  them  over,  and  test- 
ing every  nut,  bolt,  and  bar,  to  make  sure 
they  were  fully  land-worthy.  They  were 
left-hand  ploughs,  with  steel  shares,  and  weed- 
coulters,  and  light  iron  guide-wheels  support- 
ing their  heavy  beams.  He  had  run  half  a 
dozen  furrows  with  each,  then  cleaned  it 
carefully,  and  turned  it  upside  down,  so  the 
dew  might  not  fall  upon  the  scoured  share. 
Dew  would  not  rust  the  shares  in  a  single 


io  Next  to  the  Ground 

night,  but  it  would  roughen  them  —  delicately, 
it  is  true,  but  enough  to  make  the  first  morn- 
ing rounds  harder  than  they  need  be. 

A  left-hand  plough  in  fallowing,  makes  its 
own  land.  Land,  it  may  be  explained,  is  the 
technical  name  for  the  space  of  ground  laid 
off  to  be  ploughed  to  a  finish.  Sometimes  a 
whole  field  is  taken  in  a  land.  That  depends 
a  good  deal  upon  the  field's  size  and  shape. 
A  land  needs  to  be  much  longer  than  it  is 
wide.  Square  fields  are  cut  in  three  to  five 
lands,  the  number  depending  somewhat  upon 
the  lay  of  them.  Good  land-masters  have 
their  fields  fallowed  or  winter-broken  across 
the  last  breaking  —  thus  if  the  breaking  plough 
skips  a  spot  going  one  way,  it  will  be  likely 
to  hit  it  next  time. 

Lands  are  ploughed  in  or  out,  according  as 
the  breaking  is  done  with  a  right-hand  plough 
or  a  left.  This  applies  to  the  practice  of  mid- 
dle Tennessee  only.  Taking  the  world  by  little 
and  by  large,  there  are  possibly  as  many  sorts 
of  ploughing  as  of  religious  beliefs.  Ploughs 
are  right-hand  or  left-hand  through  the  placing 
of  the  share.  If  it  is  set  upon  the  stock  to 
throw  the  furrow-slice  to  the  ploughman's  right, 
then  the  plough  is  a  right-hander.  If  it  is  so 
set  as  to  turn  the  furrow  to  the  ploughman's 
left,  then  it  is  a  left-hander.  The  spread  of 
broken  ground  is  always  on  the  side  toward 


Ploughing  1 1 

which  the  furrows  fall.  A  left-hand  plough 
thus  puts  the  broken  ground  to  the  left.  With 
a  triple  team  drawing  it,  the  leader — the 
left-hand  horse  —  walks  in  the  clean  fur- 
row, the  other  two  animals  upon  firm  un- 
broken ground.  Another  advantage  of  the 
left-hand  plough  is  that  it  leaves  no  dead 
furrows  for  winter  rains  to  turn  into  gulleys 
or  miry  spots,  and  a  still  greater  one  that  in 
the  ploughing  there  are  no  corners  to  be 
turned.  At  a  corner  the  ploughman  needs 
must  lift  out  his  plough  and  set  the  share  afresh 
in  earth  —  a  heartbreaking  and  back-break- 
ing job  with  a  big  Number  40,  —  the  best 
size  for  heavy  fallowing.  At  starting  the  left- 
hand  plough  runs  back  and  forth  in  the  middle 
of  the  land,  throwing  furrow  to  furrow,  and 
stopping  half  the  land's  breadth  from  the  ends. 
The  plough  is  lifted  out  and  reset  at  the  begin- 
ning of  each  furrow,  until  there  are  half  a  dozen 
or  so.  Then  the  ploughman  drives  all  around 
the  broken  strip,  taking  his  plough  out  only 
when  it  needs  must  be  unclogged.  The  land, 
first  a  long  narrow  oval,  grows  and  spreads 
until  it  touches  either  the  field-edges  or  the 
border  of  another  land.  There  will  be  small 
triangles  unbroken  at  the  corners.  These  are 
finished  with  lighter  ploughs,  generally  right- 
hand  ones.  After  a  land  is  well  begun  two 
ploughs  or  even  three  may  run  in  it,  each  keep- 


1 2  Next  to  the  Ground 

ing  out  of  the  other's  way.  This  is  common 
practice  where  the  land  is  very  big,  and  the 
breaking  ploughs  of  the  same  pattern. 

Very  many  more  right-  than  left-hand 
ploughs  do  the  world's  work — the  ratio  is  pos- 
sibly seven  to  one.  Right-hand  breaking  com- 
monly begins  at  the  land's  edges — thus  the  first 
furrow  is  the  longest.  The  broken  ground  lies 
to  the  ploughman's  right.  Lands  are  of  almost 
any  shape,  but  preferably  a  long  square.  The 
plough  is  driven  clear  out  at  each  corner,  and 
reset  in  the  unbroken  ground.  Thus  the  team 
is  forced  to  trample  the  freshly  broken  ground. 
When  the  land  is  finished,  you  can  see  a  big 
trampled  cross  diagonally  upon  the  breast  of 
it,  marking  out  the  corners.  In  the  middle 
there  will  be  a  dead  furrow  —  that  is  to  say  a 
naked  one,  where  the  plough  cut  away  the  last 
bit  of  upper  soil,  and  flung  it  apart  from  the 
furrow  on  the  other  side.  But  neither  dead 
furrows  nor  trampling  matter  greatly  with  land 
that  is  to  be  cross-broken  before  planting  in  the 
spring.  Good  tilth  also  requires  back-furrow- 
ing at  the  margins  of  the  fields — that  is  to  say 
throwing  in  several  furrows  at  the  outer  edges 
before  full  breaking  begins.  This  prevents  a 
ridge  at  the  edge. 

It  is  entirely  possible  to  plough  in  with  a 
right-hand  plough,  quite  the  same  as  with  a  left- 
hand  one  —  but  tremendously  inconvenient. 


Ploughing  13 

At  least  with  teams  broken  to  a  haw-lead,  har- 
nessed without  breeching,  and  governed  by  a 
single  line,  which  runs  to  the  leader's  bit  and 
is  held  in  the  ploughman's  left  hand.  Middle 
Tennessee  plough-teams  are  so  harnessed  and 
driven.  Draught  beasts  working  double,  be 
it  understood,  are  distinguished  as  "  nigh"  and 
"  off"  horses.  The  nigh  horse  works  on  the 
left,  the  off  horse  on  the  right,  and  either  to 
plough  or  wagon  the  nigh  horse  always  leads. 
When  draught-beasts  hear  their  driver  shout : 
"Gee  up  there!  Gee  !  Gee!  "  they  know  it 
means  pull  to  the  right ;  when  the  shout  is  : 
"  Haw-aw  !  Whoa-haw  !  "  they  know  they 
must  pull  to  the  left.  In  a  three-horse  team 
there  is  properly  but  one  guiding  mind  —  that 
of  the  leader.  The  off  horse  and  the  middle 
one  follow  his  initiative  —  their  bridle-reins, 
indeed,  are  linked  to  a  ring  in  his  hames.  If 
they  do  not  step  with  him,  they  are  tied  back 
—  and  if  they  try  to  run  around  him,  a  favor- 
ite trick  with  youngsters  half-broken,  the  bear- 
ing-stick comes  into  play.  This  is  a  light 
stick  swung  a  little  below  the  recalcitrant's  bit, 
and  running  on  to  the  leader's  hames. 

A  team  can  be  hawed  around,  that  is  turned 
to  the  left,  by  little  more  than  a  steady  pull 
on  the  line.  To  gee  it  around  takes  five  times 
as  long,  and  ever  so  much  more  trouble.  First 
the  ploughman  must  by  jerks  and  cries  make 


14  Next  to  the  Ground 

the  leader  understand  what  is  wanted,  then 
the  leader  has  to  crowd  against  his  mates  and 
almost  force  them  into  position.  Ploughing 
in  with  a  right-hand  plough,  team  motion  is 
reversed  and  the  lead  is  against  the  furrow  — 
hence  the  share  is  apt  to  be  drawn  out,  especi- 
ally on  the  rounds.  Sometimes  it  leaves  un- 
broken strips  a  full  yard  wide  —  especially  if 
the  ploughman  is  careless  or  not  fairly  strong 
enough  for  the  work  in  hand.  Ploughmen, 
like  poets,  are  born,  and  need  a  deal  of  mak- 
ing afterwards.  Given  this  special  aptitude, 
supplemented  with  practice,  there  will  be  good 
work  with  almost  any  sort  of  plough  and 
team. 

Dan  was  a  born  ploughman,  a  master  of 
the  craft.  It  was  among  Joe's  dearest  ambi- 
tions to  prove  himself  also  of  the  guild.  Un- 
til to-day  he  had  always  resented  the  sink-hole, 
as  a  wholly  needless  blot  on  the  fair  field-face. 
Now  he  was  glad  it  was  there  —  the  bushes 
gave  just  the  shade  he  needed  to  keep  his  run- 
let cool  and  fresh.  He  slipped  down,  unslung 
it,  and  nestled  it  expertly  amid  the  vagrant 
greenery,  reminding  himself  as  he  did  it  to  be 
sure  and  look  for  snakes  when  he  came  to 
drink.  Snakes,  for  all  they  are  so  cold-blooded, 
love  coolness  in  hot  weather  —  he  had  known 
of  more  than  one  choosing  to  coil  itself  about 
a  sheltered  sweating  water  vessel.  Then  he 


Ploughing  1 5 

stood  up,  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked  about 
him.  The  mists  that  had  hung  so  low  over  the 
swales  and  in  the  creek  valley  had  risen  as  high 
as  the  tree-tops.  The  sky  was  clear,  except 
for  the  faintest  silver  mottle  far  down  at  the 
southwest.  Overhead  the  blue  brightened 
momently,  but  still  the  east  was  a  soft  trans- 
lucent pink.  Joe  hoped  it  would  not  deepen 
to  angry  red  —  he  did  not  want  hindering  rain 
upon  this  first  fallow  day.  He  was  weather- 
wise  after  the  manner  of  country  lads,  but  the 
omens  were  contradictory.  Clouds  and  heat- 
lightning  in  the  south  meant  fine  weather,  as 
a  red  sunrise  foreboded  rain.  On  top  of  that, 
the  locusts,  which  he  called  "  dry-flies,"  were 
shrilling  merrily,  yet  there  was  the  rain-crow, 
the  clown  of  the  woods,  u  calling  rain,"  with 
all  his  might. 

Bob  Whites,  feeding  in  the  stubble  upon 
clover  buds  and  scattered  wheat,  called  in 
soft  half-plaintive  singsong  to  their  fledg- 
ling broods.  Grasshoppers  hung,  often  head 
downward,  upon  tall  weeds,  and  stout  grass- 
culms,  but  were  as  yet  too  damp  and  chilly 
for  hopping —  indeed,  almost  too  sluggish  even 
for  crawling.  There  were  butterflies  every- 
where, their  wings  too  heavy  for  flight. 
Clouds  of  tiny  white  ones  clung  to  the  damp 
places,  their  motionless  wings  held  flat  to- 
gether, straight  above  their  tiny  bodies. 


1 6  Next  to  the  Ground 

Bigger  brown  ones  crawled  painfully  about 
the  netted  clover,  too  inert  to  think  of  homes 
for  their  eggs.  As  yet  they  were  not  very 
plenty.  By  mid-August  there  would  be  mil- 
lions. Their  cousins  in  golden-yellow,  and 
the  gorgeous  tawny-orange  gentry,  spotted 
all  over  with  black  velvet,  began  to  flutter 
languidly  out  of  the  hedgerows  and  the  corn- 
field. Now  and  again  a  tobacco-fly,  belated 
in  his  night-ranging,  hovered  irresolutely 
above  the  fresh  white  trumpets  of  a  vagrant 
honeysuckle,  or  the  honey-heart  of  a  late  wild 
rose.  Humble  bees  drowsed  upon  the  plumes 
of  early  goldenrod.  They  had  slept  there  all 
night  —  perhaps  to  be  ready  for  work  in  the 
morning. 

Possibly  it  is  some  dim  comprehension  of 
his  work's  worth  which  makes  the  humble  bee 
not  humble  at  all,  but  the  most  self-important 
among  winged  creatures.  Clover  is  worth, 
you  see,  uncounted  and  unreckonable  mil- 
lions, not  merely  to  the  landward  folk,  but 
to  the  world  which  the  landward  folk  feeds. 
Without  the  humble  bee  and  his  congeners, 
clover  would  never  ripen  seed.  Since  the 
plant  is  a  biennial,  no  seed  would  mean  its 
extinction,  possibly  in  ten  years  :  in  twenty 
at  the  outside. 

The  clover-heads,  understand,  are  made  up 
of  little  trumpet-shaped  florets,  so  curiously 


Ploughing  17 

lipped  and  throated  that  self-fertilization  is 
impossible.  Humble  bees  and  their  cousins 
gather  honey  by  means  of  a  long  retractile 
proboscis.  In  plundering  the  clover-heads 
they  gather  more  than  honey.  Pollen  sticks 
in  little  lumps  to  forehead  and  eyes.  It  is 
cleared  off,  with  strokes  of  the  fore-legs,  and 
in  the  clearing  spread  along  the  proboscis, 
which  deposits  it  where  it  will  do  most  good, 
—  in  the  heart  of  the  next  clover-floret 
rifled. 

Hence  clover  seed.  It  is  small  —  very 
small  to  mean  so  much,  no  bigger  than  a  tiny 
grain  of  sand.  Its  vitality  is  wonderful  —  it 
will  lie  twenty  years  deep  down  in  the  ground, 
and  germinate  when  brought  to  the  quicken- 
ing of  sun  and  air  and  springtime.  One 
might  show  statistically  its  value  in  hay  and 
pastures,  and  their  derivatives,  beef  and  butter. 
But  that  would  not  by  any  means  close  the 
account.  What  clover  is  worth  to  the  land 
itself,  is  a  matter  beyond  all  reckoning.  Like 
all  the  pea  family,  scientifically  the  Legum- 
inostz^  clover  has  for  ages  been  accepted  as  a 
plant  of  paradox.  Other  crops  grew,  and 
took  away  with  them  the  strength  of  the  soil. 
The  more  lavishly  clover  grew,  the  richer 
it  left  the  place  where  it  had  grown  —  not 
merely  lighter  and  looser,  but  in  better  heart. 
The  wise  men  explained  that  clover  was  a 


1 8  Next  to  the  Ground 

sort  of  air-plant,  drawing  thence  a  store  of 
nitrogen,  the  most  valuable  of  all  plant  foods. 
It  was  a  fine  explanation  —  except  for  the 
fact  that  it  did  not  in  the  least  explain  how 
the  trick  was  done.  Still,  in  one  point  the 
wise  men  blundered  upon  fact  —  the  fact 
that  clover  fed  the  land  through  its  roots 
rather  than  its  stalks  or  leaves  or  branches. 
But  the  wise  men  took  no  sort  of  account  of 
some  queer  little  knobs  and  bunches,  found 
upon  clover  roots,  also  upon  those  of  its 
cousins,  the  peas.  Latterly  it  has  been  dis- 
covered that  the  knobs  and  bunches  do  the 
work.  They  are  made  up  of  beneficent  bac- 
teria, which  attack  and  dissolve  the  elements 
in  the  soil,  thus  rendering  them  fit  for  plant 
food. 

Clover  is  even  more  an  aristocrat  than  a 
paradox.  It  will  not  grow  save  on  land  in 
fairish  condition.  Thin  soil,  or  sour,  or  badly 
galled  spots,  it  leaves  to  the  peas,  to  rye,  to 
the  miscalled  Japan  clover,  which  is  not  a 
clover  at  all.  Neither  does  it  love  a  sandy 
soil,  though  it  will  grow  on  it  something  lag- 
gardly.  Peas  luxuriate  in  sand,  and  do  not 
disdain  the  thinnest  crawfishy  stretches.  In- 
deed they  will  flourish  pretty  well  anywhere. 
To  say  land  "  won't  sprout  black-eyed  peas 
without  moving,"  is  to  express  in  the  verna- 
cular of  Tennessee,  the  height  and  depth 


Ploughing  1 9 

and  extreme  of  sterility.  At  White  Oaks 
they  had  made  such  riotous  growth,  Major 
Baker  knew  there  was  no  such  thing  as  turn- 

O 

ing  the  untouched  vines  under.  So  he  had 
put  hogs  upon  them  to  eat  them  down,  leaf 
and  pod  and  branch.  Only  the  long,  tough 
vines  remained,  and  the  wads  of  fibrous  stuff 
the  hogs  had  thrown  out  after  chewing  it  and 
sucking  the  sweet  juice.  Still,  even  the  vines 
made  a  nasty  tangle.  Joe  was  glad  he  did 
not  have  to  deal  with  it.  He  smiled  as  across 
the  sunlit  distance  he  heard  Dan  shouting  : 
"  Whoa-haw-w  dar  you,  Tige  !  Git  up, 
Nancy !  Tote  yosef,  Beck  !  Tote  yosefs ! 
All  you  black  gals,  tote  !  " 

His  own  team  was  ready.  Against  Dan's 
advice,  he  had  Wicked  Sal  in  the  lead.  She 
was  not  wicked  to  him  —  never  wicked  at  all, 
as  he  saw  it,  only  tricksy  and  full  of  mischief 
as  a  kitten.  Her  kicking  even  was  prankish. 
Altogether  she  was  ever  so  much  a  better  mule 
than  Blarney,  who  stood  next,  not  to  name 
being  quicker  than  Beauty,  who  worked  on 
the  off-side.  He  loved  all  three  —  had  he  not 
played  with  them  ever  since  they  were  foaled, 
and  helped  to  break  them  ?  He  had  taught 
them  to  start  and  stop  at  his  whistle,  a  soft 
piping  something  like  a  partridge's  feeding 
call.  In  the  pasture  they  ran  to  him  even  if 
they  were  hungry,  following  him  like  dogs  if 


2o  Next  to  the  Ground 

he  held  out  his  hand.  They  had  seemed  that 
morning  to  know  what  was  before  them,  stand- 
ing like  lambs  to  be  hitched,  without  snatch- 
ing at  the  green  stuff  so  temptingly  under  their 
feet.  No  wonder  he  patted  them,  called  them 
pretty  girls,  and  stuck  little  leafy  bushes  in 
their  head-stalls  to  frighten  the  flies  from  their 
ears. 

He  whistled.  Wicked  Sal  laid  one  ear  back, 
one  forward,  shook  herself  the  least  bit,  and 
flung  her  weight  against  the  collar.  Blarney 
and  Beauty  stepped  with  her  as  though  the 
three  were  one.  There  was  no  lurching,  nor 
lagging,  nor  darting.  The  share  surged  for- 
ward, with  foam-light  earth  creaming  away 
from  it  almost  as  water  creams  from  the  prow 
of  a  boat.  It  was  set  to  cut  a  furrow-slice 
nine  inches  broad,  and  five  inches  thick.  Thus 
if  the  slices  kept  shape,  they  would  fall  slant- 
wise, one  on  the  other,  and  cover  the  field's 
face  with  six  inches  of  light  earth. 

Ploughing  began  just  where  the  pasture  ad- 
joined the  mown  land.  Down  the  tramped 
side  the  slices  did  keep  shape.  Over  in  the 
aftermath,  the  earth  was  so  mellow  they  melted 
as  they  fell,  leaving  bare  a  netted  intricacy  of 
big  yellow  clover-roots.  Joe  knew  the  tramped 
land  would  be  mellow  enough  by  seedtime. 
It  was  only  firm,  not  packed  and  caked  as  the 
path  was.  The  path  ran  through  the  mowed 


Ploughing  2 1 

stretch  —  it  was  a  hungry  man's  path,  straight, 
very  narrow,  and  deeply  trodden.  Slow  Pete 
had  made  it,  walking  at  night  and  morning  to 
and  from  his  cabin  in  the  edge  of  the  flat- 
woods. 

The  ploughshare  tore  up  the  path  in  a  clod 
half  a  yard  long.  Joe  looked  at  it,  and  won- 
dered why  it  should  take  two  ploughings  and 
as  many  seedings  to  get  the  path-mark  en- 
tirely out  of  the  field.  He  wondered  also  why 
so  many  coarse,  broad-leafed  things,  plantain, 
burdock  and  their  kidney,  should  keep  spring- 
ing up  in  the  ploughed  land  to  mark  the 
path's  course.  He  speculated  a  little  too  as 
to  whether  the  path  proper  would  fetch  wheat, 
or  if  the  clean  sound  seed  sown  on  it,  would 
turn  out  cheat.  He  knew  tramping  wheat 
through  the  winter  would  turn  it  to  cheat. 
At  least  his  father  said  and  thought  so  —  and 
Joe  never  let  himself  doubt  anything  his  father 
said. 

Sunshine  had  flooded  the  field  as  he  stuck 
the  share  in  earth.  By  time  he  had  gone 
around  the  land  his  forehead  was  beaded  all 
over.  He  wiped  ofF  the  sweat,  swung  his  hat 
high  above  his  head,  and  yelled,  loudly,  hap- 
pily. Dan  answered  with  a  whoop.  Slow 
Pete,  down  in  the  grass-land,  sent  back  a  qua- 
vering halloo.  There  was  a  drenching  dew. 
Joe  was  wet  to  the  knees.  He  looked  doubt- 


22  Next  to  the  Ground 

fully  at  his  boots,  then  at  the  sweet-smelling 
earth:  "  Dew-poison  or  not,  I  '11  risk  it !  "  he 
said,  kicking  off  the  boots  and  tramping  on. 

The  fresh  earth  more  and  more  fascinated 
him.  It  was  a  warm  chocolate  loam,  except 
in  the  swales  where  it  was  richest.  There 
it  was  black-brown  with  gold-lights  of  sand. 
There  the  clover  roots  were  half  as  big  as  his 
wrists.  The  brown  butterflies  were  plentiest 
there,  and  the  grasshoppers  rose  before  the 
share  in  clittering  clouds.  The  strengthening 
sun  drew  up  the  dew  in  steamy  vapors.  Birds 
sang  only  in  fitful  snatches,  but  the  crows 
were  noisier  than  ever.  They  flew  in  from 
the  flat-woods  to  hover  impudently  behind  the 
ploughs.  Joe  picked  up  a  handful  of  rounded 
pebbles.  Rocks,  he  called  them.  They  were 
just  the  things  for  throwing  —  and  those  black 
thieves  deserved  to  be  thrown  at  if  ever  any- 
thing did.  But  as  he  made  to  launch  the 
first  stone,  he  laughed  and  flung  away  the 
whole  handful,  saying  to  himself:  "My  young 
man,  remember  you  're  ploughin'  to-day,  not 
playin' !  Suppose  Marse  Major  came  and 
found  you  throwin'  rocks  !  You  might  be 
out  of  a  job  — besides,  it  ain't  fair." 

He  had  let  the  mules  make  their  own  pace, 
sure  that  they  knew  enough  to  make  it  safely 
slow.  As  the  sweat  broke  out  on  them  in 
faint  darkish  lines  around  collars  and  back- 


Ploughing  23 

bands,  he  smiled  and  drew  a  long  breath  then 
said,  nodding  his  head  :  "  You  '11  stand  up  to 
it,  nice  girls  !  "  And  then  all  at  once,  he  was 
so  hungry  he  thought  almost  enviously  of  Dan 
and  his  corn-cake.  He  was  thirsty  too  — 
thirsty  enough  to  make  the  image  of  the  spring 
half  a  mile  away  very  tantalizing.  With  a 
quick  turn,  he  checked  the  mules,  looped  the 
line  over  the  left  plough-handle,  and  ran  to 
the  bushes  where  he  had  left  his  runlet. 

As  he  reached  for  it,  something  caught  his 
hand,  pinching  hard,  and  somebody  said  sepul- 
chrally  :  "  Boo  hoo !  the  snappin'  turtle  got 
you  that  time."  He  parted  the  brush,  and 
there  was  Patsy,  his  tomboy  sister,  balancing 
by  her  elbows  upon  the  edges  of  the  sink-hole, 
and  kicking  her  feet  against  the  sides  of  it. 
Joe  was  fond  of  her,  but  not  nearly  as  fond  as 
he  would  have  been  if  she  had  not  happened 
to  be  so  very  like  himself.  He  had  ideas 
about  girls.  They  ought  to  mind  about  things 
—  especially  their  frocks,  he  thought  —  and 
be  afraid  of  things,  particularly  such  things  as 
snakes  and  freckles  and  guns.  Patsy  was  not 
even  afraid  of  fishing  worms.  She  baited  her 
own  hook  when  they  went  fishing  together. 
What  was  much  worse  —  she  usually  caught 
bigger  fish. 

"  You  're  try  in'  to  get  snake-bit,"  Joe  said, 
as  sternly  as  he  could  speak. 


24  Next  to  the  Ground 

Patsy  scrambled  up  and  out  on  all  fours. 
"  Snakes  don't  harbor  this  time  o'  day,"  she 
said.  "They're  like  you — too  hungry! 
Here  is  your  breakfast  !  Eat  it,  and  be  glad 
I  did  n't  hide  your  runlet.  I  thought  about 
it  —  but  was  'fraid  to  put  it  in  the  sink-hole. 
I  did  n't  know  but  it  might  roll  down  clean  to 
the  bottom." 

Joe  had  left  his  team  with  heads  over  the 
broken  ground,  but  while  he  ate  and  drank  the 
mules  turned  half  about,  and  began  to  nibble 
clover.  Patsy  stepped  in  front  of  them,  pre- 
tended to  shake  her  fist  at  them,  and  said  with 
a  frown  at  the  leader :  u  Sally-gal,  I  thought 
you  had  more  sense !  You  ought  to  know 
that  second-growth  stuff  will  make  you  slob- 
ber yourself  'most  to  death." 

"  No,  it  won't !  Not  until  August !  But 
here  's  what 's  a  heap  better,"  Joe  said,  com- 
ing to  them  runlet  in  hand.  He  filled  his 
palm  generously  with  water,  and  held  it  to 
each  mule's  mouth.  They  drank  eagerly,  and 
Beauty  rubbed  her  nose  against  his  sleeve, 
making  the  while  a  little  soft  satisfied  noise. 
Patsy  nodded  approval  :  "  You  '11  make  a 
ploughboy  yet,"  she  said  judicially,  in  her 
father's  own  tone.  Joe  pretended  to  throw 
a  soft  clod  at  her  by  way  of  answer,  but  as 
she  walked  off,  he  called  to  her  over  his 
shoulder, "  Thanky,  Patsy  !  It 's  too  bad  about 


Ploughing  1$ 

you  though.  I  do  wish  you  were  —  the  boy 
you  ought  to  be." 

The  dew  dried  fast  —  so  fast  the  sun-heat 
took  on  a  tonic  quality.  The  mules  went 
freer,  and  faster,  breathing  deep,  yet  not  labor- 
ing in  the  least.  The  second  sweat  came  out 
in  a  reeking  smother  all  over  them.  When  it 
dried  in  crusty  white  lines  Joe  drew  a  sigh  of 
relief.  Twice  wet,  twice  dry,  he  knew  his 
team  was  proof  against  the  heat,  for  that  day 
at  least.  It  was  fierce  heat  —  still  it  was  not 
the  sun  that  would  send  them  in  at  eleven  or 
a  little  later,  to  stay  in  stall  until  three  of  the 
afternoon.  It  was  the  flies  —  the  flies  which 
in  spite  of  the  nets  kept  them  kicking,  biting, 
stamping,  at  times  almost  squealing.  That 
was  the  worst  part  of  breaking  pastured  clover 
land.  Cattle  had  drawn  and  left  there  such 
clouds  of  flies. 

The  plough  hardly  ever  choked  in  the  after- 
math ;  though  the  growth  was  so  heavy  it 
was  not  tall  and  tough  like  the  early  stalks  in 
the  pasture-ground.  Going  farther  and  far- 
ther into  the  swales  the  plough  encountered 
the  long  stalks  in  mats.  Grazing  beasts  are 
something  finicky  — they  choose  to  crop  short 
sweet  herbage  rather  than  that  which  is  rank 
and  coarse.  Even  in  hay  they  know  the  dif- 
ference. Many  of  the  swale-stalks  were  over 
two  yards  long,  and  set  throughout  their 


16  Next  to  the  Ground 

length  with  blossoming  branches.  They  did 
not  stand  upright,  but  curled  and  writhed  them- 
selves together,  swelling  as  high  as  the  knee. 
The  plough  could  not  begin  to  bury  them, 
and  though  the  weed-bar  ripped  through  them 
savagely,  Joe  had  to  stop  every  little  while, 
turn  the  share  half  on  edge,  and  free  it  with 
his  heel,  from  the  mass  of  gathered  stems. 

Once  a  humble  bee  stung  the  heel,  but  so 
slightly  it  smarted  only  a  very  little  bit.  Once 
too  a  green  garter-snake  made  him  shudder  by 
wriggling  out  of  the  tangle  across  his  bare  foot. 
That  made  him  think  seriously  of  putting  on 
his  boots,  but  he  decided  to  risk  it  until  he 
took  the  mules  to  water.  He  would  take 
them  to  the  creek,  and  thus  have  a  chance  to 
see  how  Slow  Pete  was  getting  on.  The 
creek-road  ran  through  the  grass  land,  cutting 
it  into  nearly  equal  halves.  His  father  was 
there,  watching  the  outlander,  who  had  come 
around  preaching  the  gospel  of  subsoiling,  and 
ready  to  prove  his  faith  by  works.  He  had 
a  plough  of  the  pattern  he  wanted  to  sell,  also 
an  ox-team  to  pull  it.  The  Major  had  struck 
a  contingent  bargain  with  him,  to  subsoil  five 
acres,  and  lose  his  work,  and  his  selling 
chances,  unless  the  crop  next  year  was 
heavier  on  the  subsoiled  plot  than  on  the 
ground  merely  surface-broken. 

The  sun  began  to  blister.     It  shone  so  hot 


Ploughing  27 

the  tender  aftermath  wilted  almost  as  the  fur- 
row was  turned.  Joe  stopped  the  mules,  let 
go  the  plough,  and  stretched  himself  long  and 
hard.  He  had  never  known  before  how  tired 
a  boy  could  be.  Still  he  had  no  thought  of 
giving  up.  That  was  not  the  Baker  way. 
If  the  Bakers  made  bad  bargains,  they  stuck 
the  closer  to  them.  Joe  wiped  his  face,  loosed 
his  shirt-collar,  and  comforted  himself  by  the 
reflection  that  the  first  day  was  always  the 
hardest. 

Just  then  he  heard  the  watering-bell — -the 
very  welcomest  sound  in  all  his  life.  In  a 
trice  he  had  the  gear  stripped  from  his  mules, 
and  laid  orderly  back  upon  the  singletrees,  and 
was  clipping  away  toward  the  gate.  A  big 
branchy  red  oak  shaded  it.  The  shade  was 
like  a  cool  green  cave.  The  mules  stopped 
short  as  they  stepped  within  it,  and  Wicked 
Sal  gave  a  little  whimpering  bray  to  Tiger, 
trotting  in  ten  yards  behind  her. 

Slow  Pete  was  breaking  the  old  grass  in 
ridge  and  furrow.  That  is  to  say,  he  was 
turning  over  a  furrow  slice  to  lie  flat  upon  an 
equal  breadth  of  sward.  Tennessee  plough- 
men call  such  half-breaking  of  weed-land, 
whip-stitching.  The  use  and  reason  of  it  is 
to  prevent  surface-washing  upon  slopes  and 
ridges.  Pete's  plough  left  the  field's  face  all 
in  little  hills  and  valleys.  He  was  not  plough- 


28  Next  to  the  Ground 

ing,  as  the  others  were,  for  wheat.  Rough 
old  sward  requires  a  year  under  plough  to  fit 
it  for  small  grain,  or  if  badly  beset  with 
broom-sedge,  the  pest  of  all  south-country 
grassland,  two  years.  The  sedge  stalks  are 
so  stiff  and  glassy,  the  roots  so  tussocky,  they 
make  the  soil  too  thirsty  for  either  wheat  or 
mowing  grass.  Arable  land  has  many  capri- 
ces of  condition.  Earable  land,  old  English 
law  writes  it,  perhaps  with  regard  to  eared 
crops,  as  wheat,  rye,  and  barley,  which  grow 
only  where  ploughs  have  run. 

The  subsoiler  was  well  up,  though  his  oxen 
could  not  step  with  the  cross-matched  team. 
The  oxen  were  big  red  fellows  with  tapering 
horns,  a  yard  in  spread  from  tip  to  tip.  They 
held  their  heads  low,  and  went  so  slowly  Dan 
said  it  made  you  tired  to  watch  them.  But 
the  chain  which  drew  the  deep-running  invis- 
ible ploughshare  never  slackened.  The  share 
turned  nothing,  threw  up  nothing.  Lifted  for 
unclogging  after  it  had  touched  a  water-vein, 
it  showed  as  an  uncanny  long-shanked  thing, 
well-scoured,  and  shining  in  the  sun,  with  a 
clot  of  very  bright  red  clay  under  the  tip. 
The  clay  upon  the  long  shank  was  of  a  warm 
chocolate  yellow,  very  unlike  the  topsoil,  which 
was  almost  black  with  unwholesome  faint 
green  scum  at  the  surface  between  the  grass 
roots. 


Ploughing  29 

The  outlander  did  not  himself  hold  the 
plough  —  he  had  another  man  to  do  that.  As 
he  scanned  the  plough-shank  he  said  persuas- 
ively :  "  Well,  Major,  what  do  you  say  to 
that  ?  We  're  letting  in  air  and  daylight  at 
least  twenty  inches  down  for  you.  Soil  that 
deep  must  be  worth  more  than  just  a  skim." 

"  Maybe,"  Major  Baker  answered,  with  a 
cautious  smile;  "but  I  can  tell  you  more 
about  that  when  the  crop  is  gathered  next 
year.  I  know  you  can  easily  have  light  soil 
too  deep  for  wheat." 

Notwithstanding,  the  Major  did  not  under- 
value the  work  of  light  and  air.  It  was 
knowledge  of  their  worth  which  had  made  him 
order  ridge-and-furrow.  Frost  would  creep 
through  the  ridges,  sweetening,  melting,  mel- 
lowing them;  air  and  sunlight  would  flood 
the  furrows  and  finish  what  the  frost  had  be- 
gun. Besides  the  old  sward  would  die  better 
—  partly  from  exposing  its  roots,  partly  from 
smothering.  So  would  the  pestilential  wild 
growths,  sassafras,  saw-brier,  and  dewberry. 
Every  inch  of  turf  was  netted  with  them  — 
they  made  it  so  tough,  indeed,  the  mules  had 
to  rest  and  blow  after  every  round.  It  was 
thus  that  the  patient  oxen,  never  hasting, 
never  resting,  kept  up  with  them. 

The  mules  pacing  down  to  water  snorted 
skittishly  at  sight  of  the  ox-team.  "You 


jo  Next  to  the  Ground 

know  when  there's  strange  work  afoot  — 
don't  you,  nice  gal  ?  "  Joe  asked,  patting 
Wicked  Sal  on  the  shoulder.  Blarney 
crowded  close  up  to  rub  her  neck  against  his 
hand,  and  Beauty  gave  a  little  complaining 
whicker.  Gray  Nell,  Pete's  leader,  trotted  out 
to  them  with  Pete  on  her  back.  Grinning 
broadly,  he  said  :  "  I  caint  hep  but  laugh  !  I 
been  laughin'  all  de  mawnin'  dest  thinkin' 
'bout  whut  dat  dar  ox-man  would  do,  ef  us 
wus  ter  run  'crost  er  bumblybee  nest." 

"  Mought  be  dat 's  er  good  thing,"  Dan  said 
thoughtfully,  motioning  towards  the  subsoiling. 
«  But  —  you  hear  me  !  I  don't  wants  none  o' 
hit.  I  don't  nebber  wanter  be  ploughin'  way 
down  whar  dem  water-dawgs  libs.  No  sir-ee 
bob  !  Dat  I  don't !  " 

The  mule  began  to  gallop.  They  scented 
running  water.  When  they  came  to  the 
creek,  they  plunged  in,  turned  their  heads  up- 
stream and  began  to  drink  thirstily.  The 
ploughmen  let  them  have  one  deep  swallow, 
then  snatched  up  their  heads,  and  held  them 
up  a  minute,  before  letting  them  drink  their 
fill.  After  the  drinking  they  stood  in  the 
stream  splashing  water  all  about  while  the 
ploughmen  went  to  the  spring,  lay  flat  upon 
the  brink  of  it,  and  drank  and  drank,  almost 
as  the  beasts  had  drunk,  with  living  water 
slipping  past  their  lips. 


Ploughing  31 

It  took  grit  to  go  back  from  rest  and  shade 
and  cool  freshness  to  the  ache  and  burning 
of  the  fallows,  but  Joe  did  not  flinch.  He 
had  put  his  hand  to  the  plough  rather  against 
his  father's  will ;  besides,  though  he  had  a  de- 
cent enough  gun,  he  wanted  a  new  one  very 
badly.  Breech-loader,  choke  bore  —  he 
thought  of  it,  over  and  over,  between  whistles 
and  chirrups  to  his  mules.  It  would  cost  a 
lot  —  more,  no  doubt,  than  a  fallow-hand's 
wages.  He  was  likely  to  get  it  whether  he 
ploughed  or  not,  but  somehow  he  felt  that  he 
should  care  more  for  it,  if  he  knew  he  had 
really  earned  it. 

Dan  was  singing  in  the  unspoiled  African 
voice,  full  of  pure  melody.  He  sang  a  bold 
air,  and  lively,  one  that  had  come  down 
from  the  slave  days,  when  every  sort  of 
work  had  its  chant  in  time  and  tune.  The 
singing  broke  welcomely  across  the  sunlit  hush. 
Clouds  were  boiling  up  in  the  south,  but  lo- 
cust and  rain-crow  alike  had  fallen  silent. 
There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind,  but  sound 
carried  so  as  to  forebode  a  thunder-shower. 
The  words  came  distinct  and  clear  across  the 
untxroken  ground.  If  more  of  it  had  been 
ploughed  they  would  have  blurred.  Joe 
caught  the  rhythm  of  the  singing.  He  had 
not  much  breath  to  spare,  but  as  strongly  as 
he  might,  he  joined  in  the  chorus.  And  so 


32  Next  to  the  Ground 

in  the  white-hot  sunshine,  bar  answering  bar, 
three  hundred  yards  apart,  they  sang  the 
fallow  song. 

\IRD-ETE  lady  tell  de  pigin 

"  Howdy!  " 
Bird-eye    lady    sooner    in    de 

mornin' ! 
Pigin  flop    an'  flap    tell  he 

make  de  wort*  cloudy  ! 
Bird-eye    lady    sooner    in    de 

mornin' 

Bird-eye  lady  !  Bird-eye  lady  ! 
Bird-eye  lady  cloud  so  cool  an   shady  ! 
Bird-eye  lady  tell  de  pigin  "  Howdy  !  " 
Bird-eye  lady  sooner  in  de  mornin' 
Cloud  talk  "Rain!"  an  de  rain  talk:  "  Res',  sir!  " 
Den  de  nigger  an    de  mule  kick  dey  heels  up  an 

say  "  Tes  sir  !  " 
Bird-eye  lady  see  de  mules  er  crawlin'! 

Bird-eye  lady,   sooner  in  de  mornin'! 
Bird-eye  lady  hear  de  rain- crow  callin'! 
Bird-eye  lady  sooner  in  de  mornin'! 

Bird-eye  lady  hear  de  rain-crow  callin'! 
Bird-eye  lady  here  's  de  rain  erfallin! 
Rain-crow  tell  de  crab-grass  :   "  Grow!  Don't 

you  res',  sir !  " 

De  crab-grass  answer  back :  "  Yes  sir!  Tes  sir! 
Tes  sir!  Yes  sir  ! " 


and  Ants 


Chapter   II 


ALLOWING  lasted  six 
weeks  —  from  mi d-July 
to  the  end  of  August. 
Throughout  it,  Joe  spent 
the  most  part  of  Sunday  flat 
on  his  back,  realizing,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  the 
sweetness  of  doing  nothing.  It  was  pure  bliss 
to  stir  drowsily  at  dawn,  remember  the  day, 
and  roll  over  again  for  a  long,  delicious  sleep. 
Then  when  he  really  awoke,  what  joy  to  lie 
relaxed,  at  full  ease,  upon  white  sheets  smell- 
ing of  rose  leaves,  and  watch  the  vagrant 
creeping  sunrays  set  little  suns,  blurred  and 
tremulous  with  leaf-shadows,  here,  there, 
everywhere,  on  the  clean  oak  floor  ! 

Through  every  fiber  his  body  cried  out  for 
rest,  but  his  mind  was  more  than  ever  active. 
Thus  he  fell  in  the  way  of  watching  things 
—  the  things  that  flew  and  crept  and  crawled. 
It  was  not  wholly  a  new  pursuit  —  he  had 


36  Next  to  the  Ground 

entertained  himself  casually  with  them  many 
times  before.  But  long  looking  required  one 
to  keep  unreasonably  still  — so  still,  Joe  made 
up  his  mind  one  had  to  be  very  tired  to  get 
great  diversion  from  it. 

Now  that  he  was  tired  enough,  he  watched 
and  wondered.  As  to  the  dirt-daubers  for 
instance.  Were  they  the  creatures  which  the 
books  called  mason-wasps  ?  They  had  the 
true  wasp-shape  —  were  slim,  uncanny-look- 
ing, greeny-black,  or  bronze-black,  with  beau- 
tiful gauze  wings.  But,  so  far  as  he  knew, 
they  stung  nothing  but  spiders — he  had  caught 
and  held  them  without  provoking  attack.  Joe 
could  not  in  the  least  understand  why  Dan  so 
hated  and  feared  them.  Dan  said :  "  Dam 
dar  dirt-dobbers  dee  des  all  de  time  ca'in'  news 
fer  de  witches."  He  would  climb  to  the  very 
top  of  the  stable  to  break  up  a  dauber's  nest, 
and  rub  the  place  with  yarrow.  After  the 
rubbing,  he  stuck  sprigs  of  the  green  plant 
under  the  ridge-pole,  climbed  down,  walked 
out  of  the  stable  backwards,  and  turned  around 
three  times  upon  his  left  heel  before  lifting  his 
eyes. 

Joe's  mother  also  hated  the  daubers,  but  not 
on  account  of  witchwork,  though  she  ad- 
mitted their  noise  made  her  feel  creepy.  She 
was  a  pattern  housewife,  so  had  no  use  for 
creatures  which  littered  her  back  piazza  floor 


Wasps  and  Ants  37 

the  whole  summer  through.  It  was  a  cedar 
floor  trig  and  tight,  laid  down  rough  but  worn 
smooth  by  uncounted  scrubbings.  The  posts 
were  also  of  cedar,  with  rails  of  seasoned  pop- 
lar running  between.  There  was  no  ceiling 
—  nothing  overhead  but  rafters  and  roof. 
The  roof  was  sharply  pitched,  of  hand-drawn 
oak  shingles  that  had  been  on  twenty  years, 
yet  seemed  good  for  twice  as  many  more. 
Space  underneath  them  was  curiously  divided 
between  winged  tenants.  The  red-wasp  zone 
came  at  the  very  tip-top,  in  the  keen  angle  of 
roof  and  house-wall.  Fruit-wasps,  brown, 
gold-banded  gentry,  ravagers  of  orchards  and 
vineyards,  came  next  lower,  but  their  nests 
were  invisible  —  they  crawled  behind  the 
weather  boards,  and  burrowed  into  the  daub- 
ing of  the  log  walls.  Any  way  they  were  not 
plenty  enough  to  fill  a  whole  zone.  The 
daubers  more  than  made  up  for  that.  Their 
zone  indeed  threatened  to  become  a  continent. 
Left  to  themselves  they  would  no  doubt  have 
overrun  the  whole  space,  but  since  they  built 
low  enough  to  be  within  reach  of  a  broom, 
betwixt  Mrs.  Baker  below,  and  the  red  wasps 
above,  they  were  held  within  reasonable 
bounds. 

Joe  cared  least  of  all  for  the  red  wasps.  It 
was  not  only  because  of  their  ill-temper  — 
they  stung  upon  occasion  or  without  it  —  they 


38  Next  to  the  Ground 

seemed  to  him  as  mechanical  as  they  were 
fretful.  Then  too,  when  a  nest  got  populous 
the  drip  underneath  it  was  not  good  to  smell. 
It  dried  upon  the  floor  or  the  wind-beams  or 
whatever  caught  it,  in  whitey-gray  splotches 
fine  and  thin  as  mist,  but  with  something  of 
the  same  pungently  acrid  odor  that  came  from 
a  ball  of  fighting  wasps.  Still  he  wondered 
where  the  red  wasps  came  from  —  in  early 
spring  they  were  so  very  few,  and  by  late  sum- 
mer so  very  many.  Nests  that  ended  broader 
than  the  two  hands  began  with  no  more  than 
half  a  dozen  roundish  cells  set  on,  rosette  fash- 
ion, at  the  end  of  a  stout  pillar  of  wood-pulp 
paper,  anchored  to  and  pendant  from  some 
sheltered  surface. 

Joe  did  not  know  that  fertile  red-wasp 
queens  live  through  the  winter,  sleeping  away 
the  cold  in  snug  cracks  or  caves  or  cellars  or 
barns.  Very  early  in  spring  these  hibernating 
queens  creep  out,  feed  a  bit,  then  set  them- 
selves to  nest-making.  The  pillar  and  first 
cells  are  the  sole  work  of  the  swarm-mother. 
When  she  has  possibly  half  a  dozen  cells  she 
lays  eggs  in  each,  which  very  soon  hatch  into 
tiny  grubs.  These  the  queen  feeds  and  tends, 
distilling  for  them  within  herself  a  sort  of 
brownish  liquid,  from  honey  and  the  juice  of 
insects.  In  twenty  days  or  thereabouts  the 
early  grubs  come  out  strong  young  worker- 


Wasps  and  Ants  39 

wasps,  which  at  once  set  themselves  to  making 
new  cells.  Thenceforward  the  nest  grows  mag- 
ically. Relieved  of  family  cares,  the  queen 
gives  her  whole  mind  and  strength  to  egg-lay- 
ing. Her  elder  children  feed  and  care  for  the 
younger  ones  as  they  themselves  were  cared 
for.  Midsummer  often  sees  a  nest  with  a 
thousand  cells.  Since  the  first  cells  are  used 
over  and  over  that  gives  some  idea  of  a  wasp- 
colony's  late  summer  strength.  Nests  with 
many  thousand  cells  are  not  uncommon. 
Sometimes  a  new  pillar  is  built  out  from  the 
middle  of  the  first  paper  comb,  and  another 
and  bigger  nest  hung  below  it.  Oftener  it 
happens  that  a  queen  is  somehow  destroyed 
while  her  first  brood  is  in  cell.  Then  her 
deserted  nest  stands  the  summer  through  no 
bigger  than  three  fingers,  a  piteous  monument 
to  frustrated  maternity.  In  the  peopled  nests, 
late  summer  sees  broods  of  drones  and  new 
queens.  They  reach  maturity  only  a  little 
time  before  frost.  When  frost  threatens,  the 
queens  and  the  workers  quit  the  nest,  leaving 
the  poor  drones  and  the  immature  brood  to 
starve.  The  workers  shift  for  themselves 
until  cold  makes  an  end  of  them,  while  the 
queens  crawl  away  and  hide  themselves  in 
winter  quarters.  Earth-nesting  wasps  are  re- 
ported to  drag  out  their  young  at  the  approach 
of  frost,  and  strew  them  upon  the  ground  where 


40  Next  to  the  Ground 

birds  may  devour  them,  evidently  feeling  that 
sudden  death  is  much  better  than  slow  starva- 
tion. 

If  Joe  had  known  all  this  he  would  have 
watched  the  red  fellows  with  keener  eyes. 
Even  as  it  was,  he  noted  that  though  they 
worked  hard,  and  showed  themselves  the  hust- 
lers of  the  air,  they  did  not  begin  over-early 
nor  stick  very  late.  Until  the  dew  was  off, 
they  clung  to  the  nest,  and  if  it  stormed,  did 
not  leave  it  at  all.  Upon  fair  days  they  be- 
haved as  though  they  had  a  rigorous  eight-hour 
law  —  every  wing  was  folded  close  around 
five  o'clock.  Whether  they  were  commun- 
ists, or  had  each  an  individual  place,  Joe  could 
not  quite  make  out.  He  knew  that  the  early 
wasps  slept  perpendicularly,  clinging  to  the 
nest-pillar,  or  in  a  partly  finished  cell.  When 
the  nest  grew  big,  at  night  the  whole  face  of  it 
was  covered  with  wasps  hanging  flat,  and  other 
wasps  inside  cells,  head  downward,  and  only 
the  heads  showing. 

The  hotter  the  day,  the  livelier  and  more 
quarrelsome  they  became.  Whenever  the 
thermometer  hovered  around  ninety-five  in  the 
shade,  not  a  half  hour  passed  but  a  knot  of 
brawlers  fell  down  upon  the  porch,  buzzing 
mad  anger  with  all  their  wings,  biting  and  sting- 
ing as  hard  as  they  could.  Sometimes,  though 
not  very  often,  a  brawler  was  stung  to  death. 


Wasps  and  Ants  41 

Always,  when  the  knot  disentangled  itself,  the 
fighters  flew  off  in  the  worst  possible  temper, 
ready  to  sting  anything  that  came  in  their  way. 
Except  when  they  fell  thus,  they  rarely  flew 
in  and  out  through  the  piazza.  They  chose 
instead  to  light  upon  the  weather-boarded 
gable,  and  crawl  through  the  big  crack  be- 
tween the  weatherboards  and  the  roof.  Light 
or  laden  it  made  no  difference — they  came 
through  the  cracks  with  balls  of  wood-pulp  in 
their  jaws,  crawled  two  or  three  inches,  spread 
their  wings,  balanced  themselves,  then  flew 
buzzing  to  the  nest. 

Joe  wondered  why  the  wasps  waited  until 
the  dew  was  off  before  setting  to  work  on 
weathered  wood,  gathering  stuff  for  their 
nests ;  the  wood  was  much  softer  with  the 
dew  on  it.  He  decided  that  the  wasps  might 
find  the  damp  fibers  tough,  and  so  prefer  them 
dry  and  brittle.  Every  Sunday  he  wished  for 
a  microscope  so  he  might  look  close  at  their 
wonderful  fore  feet,  which  spread  out  the 
pulp-balls  into  such  beautifully  smooth  cell- 
paper.  He  thought  further  that  there  must  be 
sluggards  among  them.  Watching  them,  he 
thought  he  had  seen  the  beginning  of  more 
than  one  quarrel,  when  a  swift  worker  buzzed 
and  fumed  impatiently,  waiting  laden,  for  a 
blunderer  to  get  out  of  its  way.  Some  cells 
too,  were  better-shaped  and  smoother  than 


42,  Next  to  the  Ground 

others,  and  some  wasps  ever  so  much  bigger 
and  stronger  than  their  fellows.  He  could  not 
in  the  least  understand  how  anything  so  strong- 
winged,  savage  and  cunning  as  a  wasp  ever 
let  itself  be  trapped  and  killed  in  a  gauzy 
spider-web. 

The  fruit  wasps  did  not  fight  among  them- 
selves —  perhaps  there  were  not  enough  of 
them,  but  they  did  fight  the  red  fellows  to  a 
standstill  whenever  the  reds  came  whirring 
arrogantly  about  through  fruit-wasp  territory. 
Then  it  was  not  a  case  of  the  battle  to  the 
strong.  The  red  wasps  were  unquestionably 
stronger,  and  had  more  venomous  stings.  But 
in  fighting  the  fruit  wasps  turned  upon  their 
backs,  and  bit  and  stung  with  such  judgment 
they  rarely  failed  to  be  victorious.  There  was 
this  to  be  said  for  them  —  they  never  stung 
unprovoked.  If  you  had  the  nerve  not  to 
flinch,  one  of  them  might  crawl  up  and  down 
a  bare  arm,  yet  fly  away  harmless  with  a  merry 
buzzing  of  wings. 

That  is  but  another  way  of  saying  they  are 
fine  gentlemen  on  wings  —  much  the  finest, 
Joe  thought,  of  all  that  lived  on  the  piazza- 
roof.  Besides  honey  and  fruit-juices  they  fed 
on  caterpillars,  and  occasionally  on  spiders. 
When  the  caterpillar  was  very  big,  maybe 
three  times  as  heavy  as  its  captor,  the  wasp 
brought  it  home  by  stages,  flying  a  little  way 


Wasps  and  Ants  43 

with  it,  then  resting,  perfectly  motionless  with 
wings  shut  tight.  Commonly  the  last  rest  was 
upon  the  piazza  floor  —  after  it  the  wasp 
mounted  to  the  nest  plane  in  slow  rather 
wavering  spirals,  keeping  all  four  wings  in 
rapid  motion.  Caterpillars  were  not  carried 
like  spiders,  nor  as  the  red  wasps  carried  paper- 
pulp,  in  jaws  and  between  fore  legs.  The 
wasps  caught  the  caterpillars  back  of  the  head, 
stupefied  them  with  judicious  stings,  then  sat 
with  all  six  legs  astride  their  backs,  held  fast, 
set  all  wings  fanning,  and  rose  from  the  ground, 
but  never  very  high.  Indeed  throughout  the 
hunting  they  flew  so  low  it  was  a  standing  mar- 
vel how  they  ever  managed  to  mount  to  the  nest. 
But  after  all,  none  of  the  others  were  as 
funny  as  the  dirt-daubers.  Once  they  had 
made  their  minds  up  to  build  a  nest  upon  a 
particular  spot,  they  knew  no  such  word  as 
fail.  If  their  mud-walls  were  knocked  down, 
they  swept  off  the  place  with  a  rapid  fanning 
of  wings,  and  laid  a  new  foundation.  Joe  saw 
them  do  this  four  times  one  morning  in  the 
time  between  a  late  breakfast  and  a  noon  din- 
ner. That  made  him  understand  about  Dan 
and  the  yarrow.  White  Oaks  daubers  some- 
how could  not  abide  the  smell  of  the  plant. 
Dan  said  the  reason  was,  yarrow  was  a  con- 
jure herb,  but  upon  that  point  Joe  reserved 
opinion. 


44  Next  to  the  Ground 

There  seemed  to  be  no  proper  dauber  com- 
munity, though  several  darted  and  buzzed 
about  the  nest.  A  mud-castle,  once  begun, 
went  up  and  forward  with  a  rush.  Still  the 
daubers  made  haste  slowly.  Mortar  they  got 
most  commonly  out  at  the  chicken-trough  in 
the  back  yard,  where  there  was  nearly  always 
water  spilled  over  the  edges.  Sometimes  a 
dozen  settled  upon  the  soft  earth  at  the  margin 
of  the  over-flow  puddle  and  began  to  ball  up 
the  soft  earth.  It  required  some  minutes  to 
gather  a  pellet,  shape  it  properly,  and  balance 
it  for  flying.  Before  starting  to  the  nest  there 
was  a  trial  flight  of  a  few  inches.  If  the  flyer 
settled  either  forward  or  back,  she  at  once 
alighted  and  shifted  her  burden  back  or  forth. 

Sometimes  the  puddle  dried  quickly,  leav- 
ing stiffish  mud  behind.  The  daubers  gath- 
ered balls  of  this,  and  crawled  with  them 
cautiously  to  the  edge  of  the  trough  so  the 
water  in  it  might  soften  the  balls  and  make 
them  spread  properly.  If  the  mud  crusted  all 
over,  the  daubers  crawled  about  evidently  in 
search  of  a  wet  spot.  When  they  did  not 
find  a  wet  spot,  they  flew  away,  either  to  the 
far  trough,  in  the  edge  of  the  orchard,  or  to 
the  calf-lot  pond  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
off.  If  they  took  these  long  flights  they  were 
much  apter  to  drop  their  mud-balls,  although 
they  rested  once  or  twice  on  the  way  home. 


Wasps  and  Ants  45 

Joe  could  tell  where  they  had  been  by  the 
color  of  the  dropped  pellets.  Mud  from  the 
orchard  was  almost  black,  that  from  the  calf- 
pond  distinctly  reddish.  Sometimes  he  pur- 
posely renewed  the  yard-puddle  —  he  liked  to 
watch  the  nests  grow,  and  they  grew  very 
much  faster  with  building  stuff  handy. 

Building  began  by  sticking  a  thickish  lump 
against  a  flat  surface.  Two  or  three  balls 
commonly  went  into  this  lump.  The  walls 
spread  from  it  either  side  in  a  sort  of  semi- 
Gothic  arch,  and  grew  to  a  gallery,  often 
longer  than  the  hand.  Throughout  the  build- 
ing the  arch  remained.  New  work  began 
in  the  point  of  it  —  a  laden  dauber  stuck  a 
mud-ball  there  and  spread  it  down  one  side 
or  the  other,  using  fore  legs  for  trowels,  and 
stretching  the  ball  into  an  earth-cord.  Dried, 
these  round  cords  formed  walls  as  thick  as 
thin  cardboard,  and  ridged  delicately  all  over. 
Each  ridge  outlined  the  wall-arch.  Some- 
times a  dauber  built  so  fast  there  was  an 
inch  of  gallery  with  the  mortar  still  wet. 

The  daubers  were  poor  judges  of  mortar, 
for  all  their  experience.  Black  stuff,  such  as 
came  from  the  orchard,  was  hardly  worth 
bringing  in.  Dry,  it  crumbled  for  the  least 
jar.  Red-clay  mud  made  fairly  good  walls, 
but  not  as  good  as  yellow,  which  dried  almost 
flint-hard.  No  dauber  in  good  standing  was 


46  Next  to  the  Ground 

ever  satisfied  with  a  nest  of  one  gallery.  As 
soon  as  the  first  was  an  inch  long  a  second  was 
begun,  then  a  third,  a  fourth — a  seventh  even 
was  not  at  all  uncommon.  As  a  gallery 
lengthened  it  was  walled  across  into  cells  a 
little  more  than  an  inch  deep.  Before  a  cell 
was  finally  sealed,  it  was  crammed  full  of 
spiders  or  caterpillars,  not  killed  but  deftly 
stung  into  paralysis.  It  was  not  a  complete 
paralysis.  After  the  sting,  a  spider's  legs 
would  quiver,  a  caterpillar  move  feebly.  But 
the  creatures  could  not  crawl.  If  the  daub- 
ers dropped  {hem,  they  lay  where  they  fell. 
Sometimes  the  daubers  flew  down,  and  made 
a  feint  of  picking  up  their  lost  prey,  but  more 
generally  they  flew  off  after  fresh  game. 

Joe  decided  that  the  daubers  purposely  let 
fall  some  of  their  captives.  He  knew  the 
spiders  and  caterpillars  were  meant  to  feed 
the  young  daubers  that  would  hatch  out  in 
the  cells.  Dauber-grubs  fed  by  sucking,  and 
dead  insects  would  be  too  dry  for  that,  long 
before  the  grubs  hatched  out.  He  had  knocked 
down  dauber  nests  in  mid-winter,  and  found 
the  spiders  in  them  still  soft  and  plump,  even 
faintly  alive.  So  it  was  reasonable  to  con- 
clude that  the  castaways  were  castaways  be- 
cause they  had  been  stung  so  they  would  die 
—  either  too  deeply,  or  in  the  wrong  place. 

Speculation  upon  the  point  sometimes  sent 


Wasps  and  Ants  47 

him  to  sleep.  The  speculation  was,  however, 
mightily  aided  by  the  noise  of  daubers  at 
work.  It  was  a  sharp  vibrant  metallic  hum- 
ming, which  began  as  the  mud-ball  was  set 
on  the  wall,  and  ended  when  the  last  grain 
was  properly  spread.  Joe  thought  if  fairies 
played  on  the  jew's-harp  it  must  sound  much 
the  same.  He  was,  you  see,  a  jew's-harp 
player  himself.  When  half  a  dozen  daubers 
worked  and  harped  at  the  same  time,  he  found 
there  was  a  difference  of  almost  half  a  note 
in  the  volume  of  sound  at  the  end,  and  the 
beginning.  It  was  loudest  at  first,  and  strong- 
est and  clearest  when  the  mortar  spread  easily. 
Daubers  did  not  always  make  good  jobs  of 
the  spreading.  Often  Joe  saw  lumps  bitten 
off,  and  whole  new  earth-cords  gone  over. 
For  the  most  part  the  galleries  ran  straight 
and  plumb,  but  one  much  harried  builder,  ran 
up  a  fifth  nest  with  walls  as  crooked  as  could 
be,  and  slapped  on  fresh  galleries  wholly  at 
haphazard. 

The  daubers  crawled  with  wings  flat  at 
the  sides,  now  and  then  lifting  them,  and 
dropping  them  with  a  faint  flick.  Sometimes 
only  the  wings  on  one  side  went  up.  More 
commonly  they  raised  wings  on  both  sides. 
The  wing  opening  and  shutting  was  almost 
instantaneous.  The  daubers  did  not  crawl 
with  spread  wings.  They  left  that  to  the 


48  Next  to  the  Ground 

wasps,  red  and  brown.  A  crawling  wasp 
whose  wings  are  folded  either  over  the  back 
or  at  the  sides  is  reasonably  peaceful.  Crawl- 
ing with  spread  wings  it  will  sting  anything 
stingable  —  and  sometimes  try  to  sting  those 
which  are  not,  as  posts  or  boards. 

Hornets  were  regular  piazza  busybodies, 
darting  everywhere  about  it  after  flies,  their 
favorite  prey,  alighting  now  and  then  to  dress 
their  wings  with  their  fore  feet,  or  to  rub  off 
the  feet  themselves  upon  a  smooth  wooden 
surface.  But  they  did  not  nest  on  the  piazza. 
Instead,  they  built  around  a  three-pronged 
bough  in  the  sweeting  apple-tree.  Weather- 
wise  folk  said  their  setting  the  nest  so  high 
was  a  sure  sign  the  next  winter  would  be  mild. 
Before  a  very  cold  winter  —  thus  the  weather 
sages  —  hornets  build  low,  on  shrubs  or 
even  weeds,  and  make  their  paper  walls  extra 
thick.  However  that  may  be,  the  nest  is 
built  in  rings  much  as  an  onion  grows,  with 
cells  like  wasp-cells  in  between  the  rings. 
The  building  begins  modestly,  yet  the  nest 
which  at  first  is  no  bigger  than  an  egg,  may 
end  by  reaching  the  size  of  a  water-bucket.  In 
shape  it  is  always  an  irregular  oval,  in  color 
grayish.  Sometimes  the  small  end  is  up, 
sometimes  down.  There  is  an  opening  at 
the  bottom,  through  which  the  insects  fly  in 
and  out. 


Wasps  and  Ants  49 

Rain  and  dew  did  not  daunt  the  hornets ; 
further,  they  kept  at  work  from  daylight  until 
dark.  They  were  indeed  very  much  the  most 
energetic  among  the  nest-builders,  also  the 
most  ill-tempered.  They  stung  with  malice 
aforethought,  and  did  not  even  fly  about  their 
own  affairs  without  buzzing  complaint.  Not- 
withstanding, Mrs.  Baker  tolerated  them  — 
partly,  it  is  true,  because  she  could  not  help 
it,  and  partly  also  on  account  of  the  fly- 
catching.  They  pounced  hawk-like  upon 
every  fly  they  could  surprise.  That  was  not 
very  many.  Fly-eyes  have  so  many  facets,  — 
that  dilettante  insect  sees  as  well  behind  and 
at  the  side  of  himself,  as  before.  Hornets 
are  far  from  being  so  clear-sighted.  Many 
a  time  they  pounced  upon  a  little  black  spot, 
mistaking  it  for  a  fly.  They  were  fond  also 
of  spiders,  but  more  wary  of  attacking  them 
than  either  the  wasps  or  daubers.  If  they 
ever  attacked  a  spider  hard  by  his  web  the 
chances  were  rather  more  than  even,  that 
instead  of  catching,  they  would  themselves 
be  caught. 

Spider  webs  are  often  so  fine-spun  they  are 
invisible  except  when  hung  with  dew.  So  it 
was  not  at  all  strange  that  the  hornets,  hot- 
tempered,  blustering,  almost  ruffianly  blunder- 
heads, often  fell  foul  of  them,  and  by  their 
frantic  rage  only  entangled  themselves  the 


50  Next  to  the  Ground 

more  fatally.  As  between  the  spiders  and 
their  various  enemies,  Joe  decided  that  the 
webs  caught  three  hornets  to  one  wasp,  and 
at  least  two  wasps  for  every  dauber. 

Nearly  ever  since  the  piazza  was  built  sweat- 
bees  had  made  nests  in  the  rails  across  the 
east  end.  The  rails  were  about  three  inches 
through  and  nearly  always  damp  from  the 
shade  of  the  honeysuckle  trellis  outside.  They 
had  been  painted  white.  The  paint  was  now 
mainly  a  reminiscence.  They  were  set  ten 
inches  apart  and  had  upon  the  bottom  an  inch- 
wide  flat  space.  It  was  in  this  that  the  sweat- 
bees  always  began  work.  They  worked  in 
pairs,  and  stuck  to  the  second  rail  which  they 
had  chosen  first,  weakening  it  so  much  that  it 
had  had  to  be  replaced  more  than  once.  There 
were  always  three  or  four  pairs  of  them,  never 
more  nor  less.  In  early  June  they  began  chip- 
ping out  a  round  hole  as  big  as  the  finger.  Each 
pair  made  a  separate  hole,  and  the  two  took 
turns  at  the  chipping,  one  resting  while  the 
other  worked.  For  maybe  an  inch  the  hole 
went  straight  up,  then  turned  horizontally  and 
ran  several  inches  right  or  left,  with  the  grain 
of  the  wood,  and  was  shaped  into  a  rounded 
nest  chamber.  Sometimes  they  made  two  or 
three  false  starts,  so  evidently  they  were  not 
over-easy  to  please.  In  boring  straight  up- 
ward, their  chips  took  care  of  themselves,  but 


Wasps  and  Ants  5 1 

when  it  came  to  cutting  the  gallery,  and  hol- 
lowing the  nest  proper,  they  crawled  with  the 
big  bits  to  the  mouth  of  the  nest  and  dropped 
them  outside,  then  set  their  wings  buzzing  so 
strongly  the  fine  dust  was  fanned  out. 

They  were  black  and  gold  like  humble  bees, 
only  smaller.  They  lined  their  wooden  walls 
with  bits  cut  from  flower-petals,  most  gener- 
ally roses  —  at  least  Joe  believed  so,  he  had 
found  bits  of  rose-petals  dropped  below  the 
nest.  And  when  he  had  split  up  one  of  the 
condemned  rails,  he  had  found  some  wooden 
chambers  empty,  others  full  of  darkish  sticky 
stuff  something  like  bee-bread,  meant  no 
doubt  for  the  nourishing  of  another  season's 
sweat-bees. 

He  was  very  curious  about  the  death- 
watches  that  lived  inside  the  house,  hollow- 
ing out  winding  homes  for  themselves  in  the 
oak  logs  of  the  big  dining  room.  But  all  he 
was  ever  permitted  to  find  out  was  that  the 
insects  looked  like  yellow-jackets,  only  stouter. 
His  mother  hated  to  hear  the  creatures  named 
—  her  black  mammy  had  told  her  in  child- 
hood that  they  "  knew  when  death  was  ridin' 
and  would  keep  it  away  from  houses  where 
they  were  let  alone." 

So  when  he  grew  tired  of  lying  upon  the 
piazza  floor  beside  his  baby  brother,  Billy-Boy, 
his  head  on  Billy-Boy's  sheepskin,  his  eyes  fast 


52  Next  to  the  Ground 

on  the  piazza  roof,  he  got  up,  picked  up  the 
baby  and  the  sheepskin,  and  took  them  out 
upon  the  shady  grass  at  the  end  of  the  house. 
There  he  could  see  what  the  ants  were  doing. 
In  a  way  they  were  old  friends  of  his.  When 
the  flying  ants  swarmed  in  the  spring  he  knew 
danger  of  frost  was  over.  They  came  out 
with  a  rush,  almost  like  the  spray  of  a  foun- 
tain, lost  their  silver-gray  wings  pretty  soon 
after  they  touched  ground,  and  became  ordin- 
ary big  ants,  black  or  reddish.  Some  of  them 
were  almost  an  inch  long,  but  did  not  sting 
as  viciously  as  the  little  red  ones  which  were 
the  pest  of  midsummer  housekeeping. 

If  Joe  had  known  that  the  flying-out  was  a 
tumultuous  ant-wedding,  he  would  have  been 
more  than  ever  interested  in  watching  it.  As 
the  case  stood,  he  did  not  care  for  the  fliers 
half  so  much  as  for  the  little  black  ants  — 
^sop's  pismires.  The  pismires  had  a  strong 
nest  somewhere  in  the  chimney  foundation. 
Joe  liked  to  put  out  a  lump  of  sugar  upon  the 
chimney  shoulder  twenty  feet  in  air,  and  watch 
what  happened  when  a  ranger-ant  found  it. 
He  was  certain  there  were  ranger-ants  —  in- 
sects bolder,  and  of  better  brain  than  the  rest. 
He  saw  solitary  fellows  going  everywhere,  up, 
down,  across,  around  —  to  the  chimney-top, 
the  garden  fence,  or  all  about  the  big  oak  trees 
seeking  honey-dew  to  devour.  The  most  of 


Wasps  and  Ants  53 

folk  thought  the  honey-dew  fell  like  other  dew, 
but  Joe  knew  better  —  he  had  read  about  the 
insects  which  secrete  it,  and  serve  in  a  manner 
as  ant-cows.  But  that  did  not  interest  him 
half  so  much  as  watching  what  the  rangers 
did — how  they  hunted,  and  when  they  had 
found,  went  home  to  the  nest  by  the  best  route, 
blazing  out  a  path  for  the  worker-ants  to  fol- 
low. 

He  spent  hours,  propped  on  his  elbows, 
looking  at  the  paths  and  what  went  on  in 
them.  The  paths  appeared  to  be  barely  wide 
enough  for  two  ants  to  travel  side  by  side,  or 
one  to  pass  another,  coming  or  going.  Usu- 
ally the  ants  moved  in  two  lines  —  one  going 
out  light,  the  other  coming;  in  laden.  The 

O          '  O 

light  line  always  gave  road  to  the  loaded  one 
—  that  is  to  say,  turned  a  little  out,  so  the 
loaded  fellows  could  keep  straight  on  home. 
But  there  are  rogues  among  ants  as  well  as 
among  men.  It  happened  sometimes  that  a 
rogue-ant  tried  to  seize  on  what  another  had 
brought  nearly  home,  and  take  it  to  the  nest 
as  his  own.  The  rogue  did  not  turn  out. 
Instead  he  stood  square  in  the  passway, 
snatched  at  the  load  as  it  came  against  his 
head,  then  made  to  turn  and  run  back.  If 
he  surprised  the  other  ant,  broke  his  hold,  and 
got  the  booty,  he  did  turn  and  run.  Other- 
wise there  was  a  very  pretty  fisticuff.  The 


54  Next  to  the  Ground 

two  rose  on  their  hind  legs,  and  with  their 
fore  ones  pummelled  each  other  soundly,  both 
keeping' jaws  fast  upon  the  thing  in  dispute. 
Generally  they  fell  over,  thus  blocking  the 
path  and  getting  a  huddle  of  distracted  ants 
either  side  themselves.  The  crowd  jostled 
and  scrambled  in  a  mighty  human  fashion  as 
though  trying  to  see  what  it  was  all  about, 
sbut  commonly  the  disturbance  was  over  in  a 
minute.  One  fighter  or  the  other  quickly 
gave  in.  Sometimes  Joe  saw  two  ants  or 
even  three  struggling  home  with  a  big  load 
—  say  a  grain  of  rice  or  wheat  kernel,  or  a 
crumb  of  bread.  They  had  their  heads  be- 
neath the  load,  their  bodies  spread  out  in 
wedge-shape,  and  held  their  heads  as  high  as 
possible,  so  as  to  keep  the  load  clear  of  the 
ground.  Once  or  twice  he  saw  a  fourth  ant 
stand  almost  upright  opposite  the  bearers, 
propping  the  load  with  head  and  fore  legs, 
and  walking  backwards  with  funny  mincing 
steps. 

An  over-loaded  ant  or  a  tired  one  seemed 
sometimes  to  ask  help  of  another.  The  tired 
ant  dropped  his  load,  stopped  and  rubbed  a 
feeler  over  the  helper's  head,  then  picked  up 
his  burden  and  went  on  with  it.  The  light 
ant  ran  on  an  inch  or  so,  then  turned,  over- 
took the  tired  one,  put  his  head  under  the 
load,  and  kept  it  there  until  the  nest  was 


Wasps  and  Ants  55 

reached.  If  a  straw  was  laid  across  the  path, 
they  dropped  the  load,  and  measured  the  straw 
with  their  feelers,  first  one  then  the  other. 
Then  they  tried  the  ground  to  see  if  they  could 
go  under  the  straw.  If  they  could  not,  they 
ended  by  picking  up  their  burden,  lugging  and 
tugging  it  to  the  top  of  the  straw,  and  tumb- 
ling it  down  on  the  other  side. 

Blocking  the  path  with  a  pebble,  a  pinch 
of  earth,  even  a  splash  of  water  was  much 
more  serious.  Ants  gathered  in  knots  either 
side  the  obstacle,  turning  uncertainly  about, 
until  a  ranger  came  to  lay  out  a  new  path 
for  them.  The  new  path  was  almost  always 
around  the  obstacle,  not  over  it.  By  wetting 
the  ground  either  side  the  path  for  a  little 
distance,  it  was  possible  to  make  the  ants  crawl 
over  a  pebble.  Loose  earth  they  would  not 
set  foot  on  —  a  strange  thing  when  one  con- 
siders that  they  nest  so  often  in  earth  —  indeed 
that  they  cannot  live  without  earth.  Where 
a  path  was  blocked  continuously  for  a  yard  or 
so,  or  two  or  three  times  close  together,  the 
rangers  abandoned  it,  and  struck  out  a  new 
one. 

Joe  fancied  the  ants  followed  their  paths  by 
scent.  This  was  because  water  in  a  path  set 
them  at  fault  even  after  it  had  dried.  He  be- 
lieved also  the  pathmakingwas  in  the  nature  of 
a  providence  to  help  ant-swarms  to  their  proper 


56  Next  to  the  Ground 

nests.  Swarms  from  many  points  fed  on  the 
same  honey-dew  —  there  would  be  a  mighty 
mixing  up  of  families  unless  each  inhabitant 
of  a  nest  knew  beyond  dispute  the  proper  road 
home.  Occasionally  he  saw  what  he  took  for 
a  stray  ant  —  one  which  ran  bewilderedly  back 
and  forth,  turning  in  the  path  about  every  yard 
or  so,  and  obsequiously  keeping  out  of  the  way 
of  all  it  met.  Notwithstanding  the  obsequi- 
ousness, the  ants  to  whom  the  path  belonged 
fell  upon  these  presumable  strangers,  cuffed 
them,  hustled  them  roughly  about,  and  at  last 
drove  them  to  seek  shelter  in  the  grass  or  leaf- 
age outside.  Joe  wondered  a  little  if  the 
strays  starved  there,  or  if,  in  the  end,  they 
managed  to  steal  home. 

He  was  sure  the  ants  were  all  weatherwise. 
Else  how  should  they,  when  honey-dew  was 
plentiest,  six  hours  before  a  rainstorm,  so  crowd 
the  paths  to  it  they  were  fairly  in  each  other's 
way  ?  Sometimes  then  they  tried  to  come  and 
go  three  abreast  in  paths  just  big  enough  for 
one.  He  laughed  to  see  the  tangle  they  made, 
and  thought  how  odd  it  was,  with  all  their 
foresighted  wisdom  they  knew  no  better.  An- 
other thing  these  Sunday  studies  taught  him, 
was  the  wonders  and  uses  of  ant- feelers.  They 
were  such  little  things,  much  finer  than  hairs, 
set  on  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead,  yet  able 
to  reach  back,  forth,  sidewise,up,down,  around. 


Wasps  and  Ants  57 

By  help  of  them  the  ants  knew  what  was 
edible,  what  impassable,  what  safe,  and  what 
dangerous.  Anything  they  came  to,  the  feelers 
examined.  Joe  told  himself  the  feelers  were 
much  more  than  feelers  —  they  stood  to  the 
little  black  fellows  for  hands,  eyes,  ears,  not 
to  mention  nose  and  tongue. 


The  Ragged  Month 


Chapter    III 


N  Tennessee,  August  is  the 
ragged  month,  especially 
towards  the  end.  Pas- 
tures, in  the  main,  are  bare 
and  sun-baked  ;  the  yel- 
lowed corn  blades  have 
begun  to  whip  and  tatter. 
If  grasshoppers  are  plenty 
they  eat  the  high  corn-blades  to  the  midrib 
while  still  they  are  green.  In  fields  so  eaten 
the  whipping  sounds  like  a  battle  of  willow 
wands.  Gardens  lie  waste  and  weedy,  except 
in  the  late  cabbage  plots,  and  the  sweet  potato 
patches.  But  in  the  flower  borders  there  is  a 
fine  riot  of  red  and  yellow,  and  pink  and  purple, 
with  now  and  then  a  blotch  of  white. 

Verbenas,  petunias,  phlox,  geraniums,  nas- 
turtiums, are,  each  and  several,  the  real  sun- 
flowers. The  sun  never  shines  too  white-hot 
for  them.  They  live  but  to  meet  such  shin- 
ing, and  stretch  out  stems  almost  fabulously 


62  Next  to  the  Ground 

long,  in  the  effort  to  escape  from  shade.  Upon 
rainy  days  they  either  close  or  droop,  and  stand 
patterns  of  sad-colored  constancy,  in  wait  for 
their  liege.  But  the  big  staring  blooms,  dahlias, 
sunflowers,  zinnias,  and  late  hollyhocks,  rejoice 
in  a  moderate  downpour  and  after  it  laugh  out 
in  new  beauty.  August  freshets  wash  out  and 
beat  down  even  the  hardiest  blowth. 

Roses  bloom  through  the  ragged  month,  but 
languidly,  after  the  manner  of  fretful  fine  ladies 
impelled  solely  by  the  obligation  of  nobility. 
It  is  an  ephemeral  blooming — fresh  one  morn- 
ing, faded  and  falling  the  next.  But  what 
would  you  have  ?  The  bushes  are  ripening 
new  wood,  striking  new  and  stronger  roots 
that  the  late  autumn  blooming  shall  be  richer 
and  more  perfect  than  even  the  roses  of  May. 

The  orchards  have  their  own  ragged  story, 
told  by  rifled  boughs,  and  bent  and  broken  ones. 
Stripped  peach  boughs  in  particular,  are  ragged 
to  the  point  of  desolation.  Peaches  ripen 
quickly,  once  the  time  of  ripeness  comes,  and 
only  a  few  among  them  —  the  old  seedling 
sorts  —  hang  long  after  ripening.  To  taste 
a  perfect  peach  you  must  eat  one  that  has 
fallen  of  its  own  ripeness  from  a  high  sunlit 
bough  where  the  free  winds  played  over  it, 
yet  where  it  had  a  due  and  proper  shade.  The 
sunny  side  of  a  peach  is  always  juiciest  and 
of  the  finest  flavor  —  still  sun-baking  makes 


The  Ragged  Month  63 

the  fruit  tough  and  leathery.  Furthermore 
sun-baking  presages  lack  of  sufficient  leafage, 
and  it  is  the  leaves  which  elaborate  the  sap, 
making  it  fit  to  feed  wood,  and  fruit  and  root. 
A  tree  stripped  of  leaves  just  as  its  fruit  was 
ready  to  ripen,  would  be  apt  to  die.  Certainly 
the  fruit  would  dry  and  shrivel.  Grape  vines 
so  stripped  do  die  down  to  the  root.  Next 
year  they  will  grow  again  from  the  root,  but  it 
will  be  several  years  before  the  growth  is 
normal. 

Feathered  folk  are  the  raggedest  things  of 
all.  From  the  big  bronze  turkeys  to  the  tini- 
est bantams,  they  give  their  whole  minds  and 
bodies  to  getting  themselves  new  coats.  It  is 
much  the  same  with  the  birds.  The  fledg- 
lings have  shed  part  of  the  nest-plumage,  so 
are  more  unkempt  and  pen-feathered  than 
even  their  elders.  The  ground  beneath  a 
hawk's  or  owl's  roost  is  flecked  with  cast-off 
quills  and  hackles.  Birds  of  prey  have  all  an 
instinct  of  fixity,  and  unless  greatly  disturbed, 
nest  and  roost  on  the  same  spot  year  after  year. 
They  preen  themselves  and  dress  their  coats 
before  leaving  the  perch.  Still  now  and  then 
a  straggling  loose  feather  flutters  down  as  they 
fly  in  aerial  heights. 

Ishmaels  of  upper  air,  with  beak  and  claw 
against  every  other  feathered  or  creeping  thing, 
hawks  yet  cry  softly  and  clearly,  one  to  an- 


64  Next  to  the  Ground 

other,  especially  hungry  young  hawks,  just 
out  of  the  nest.  It  is  a  cry  of  three  notes, 
melodious,  and  pleading,  unlike  yet  pitched  in 
key  with  the  call  of  the  mourning  dove.  If  the 
young  hawks  cry  continuously  upon  an  August 
morning  it  is  to  the  countryside  almost  a  certain 
sign  of  rain  before  midnight.  The  three  notes 
are  insistently  repeated,  after  a  barely  percep- 
tible pause.  The  sound  is  curiously  vibrant 
and  carrying,  often  coming  clearer  across 
stretches  of  open  field  than  in  the  woods  about 
the  nest.  The  young  birds  haunt  the  vicin- 
age of  the  nest,  long  after  they  are  strong  on 
the  wing.  They  grow  so  rapidly,  and  take  wi  ng 
so  easily,  it  is  only  this  haunting  that  by  mid- 
August  distinguishes  them  from  their  parents. 
Hawks  commonly  lay  two  eggs,  but  the 
bigger  ones,  such  as  the  red-winged  hen  hawk 
oftener  than  not  raise  but  a  single  nestling. 
That  is  true  also  of  the  horned  owls,  big 
brown-mottled  fellows,  six  feet  from  tip  to  tip. 
Blue-tailed  hawks  which  are  small,  yet  savage 
hunters  of  quail,  often  destroying  whole  coveys 
of  them,  bring  up  their  young  in  pairs.  So  do 
the  comic  screech-owls,  the  fussiest  and  most 
self-important  of  all  birds.  Owlets  speak  to 
their  parents  and  the  world  at  large,  with  a  sort 
of  chuckle,  half  querulous,  half  wheedling. 
They  are  full-fledged  before  they  quit  the  nest, 
which  is  in  either  a  hollow  tree,  a  dry  cranny 


The  Ragged  Month  65 

in  the  bluff,  or  a  dark  safe  place  in  some  de- 
serted building. 

Negroes  call  the  screech-owl  "  squinch- 
owels,"  and  hold  them  in  dread  as  prophets  and 
fore-runners  of  bad  luck.  A  screech-owl  cry- 
ing on  the  roof  they  say  brings  death  to  the 
house  ;  if  he  perches  on  the  fence  he  is  "callin' 
trouble,"  and  if  he  drops  down  the  chimney 
either  hunting  swallows,  or  hiding  himself  from 
sudden  daylight,  somebody  will  get  burned  to 
death  within  the  year.  There  are  various  coun- 
ter-charms —  flinging  salt,  a  black  walnut,  or 
an  Irish  potato  at  him,  chewing  a  tow  wad  to 
shoot  him,  or  making  everybody  in  the  house, 
when  he  comes  down  the  chimney,  walk  out 
of  it  behind  him  as  he  flies  away.  To  kill 
him  inside  would  simply  clinch  the  ill  luck. 
Even  to  hear  him  screech  in  woods  or  fields 
when  anybody  is  sick,  means  that  the  sick 
person  will  die,  or  come  near  death. 

Woodlands  stand  hushed  and  desert  in  this, 
the  turn  of  the  summer.  There  are  days  when 
no  wind  stirs  either  the  low  leaf  or  the  high. 
Oak-leaves  are  stiff,  and  shine  as  though  var- 
nished, especially  those  of  the  Spanish  oak, 
and  the  scrubby  black-jack.  Dew  drenches 
the  fields,  yet  is  light  in  the  woods  upland. 
Trees  growing  along  the  creek,  or  in  low 
moist  swales,  gather  it  so  heavily  the  least 
ruffle  of  air  toward  morning  sends  heavy  drops 


66  Next  to  the  Ground 

pattering  down.  Still  the  undergrowth  al- 
ways seems  thirsty.  The  struggle  for  exist- 
ence, always  sharp  among  growing  things, 
comes  to  a  fighting  finish  in  August  heats, 

The  low-growing  boughs  shut  away  from 
sunlight,  perish,  the  thickets  grow  ragged  with 
fading  leaves  and  dead  stems.  Nature's  law 
is  inexorable.  If  the  root  cannot  suck  up 
sap  and  substance  for  the  leaves  to  shape  into 
new  living  wood,  then  it  is  better  the  whole 
plant  should  die  than  remain  and  cumber  the 
ground.  The  mounting  sap  is  mainly  water, 
faintly  tinctured  with  various  elements.  The 
chiefest  of  them  is  carbon,  in  the  form  of  car- 
bonic acid.  This  the  leaves  turn  back  into 
oxygen  and  carbon,  keeping  the  carbon  in 
their  own  cells,  and  giving  off  the  oxygen  from 
their  under  sides.  They  also  give  off  much 
water.  Even  a  small  plant  in  vigorous  growth 
soon  covers  a  bell  glass  set  over  it  with  good- 
sized  drops.  A  tree  three  feet  through  at  the 
ground  is  estimated  to  send  up  to  its  trunk 
and  boughs,  in  the  season  of  full  growth,  about 
five  barrels  of  sap  each  twenty-four  hours. 
And  such  is  the  force  of  the  sending  up,  that 
if  it  were  possible  suddenly  to  check  the  trans- 
piration through  the  leaves,  trunk  and  branches 
would  burst. 

Since  moist  air  draws  electricity,  which  is 
the  real  rain  and  climate  maker,  it  is  easy  to 


The  Ragged  Month  67 

see  how  important  a  good  breadth  of  forest 
trees  is  to  arable  land.  Their  deep  roots  suck 
up  the  waters  under  the  earth,  and  send  them 
out  in  fine  invisible  clouds  to  invite  the  clouds 
visible.  But  the  trees  distill  in  these  clouds 
only  water.  What  the  water  brought  to  them, 
they  keep  for  their  own  enriching,  mysteriously 
transmuting  elemental  substances  into  cells, 
sugar,  starch,  gum,  oil,  and  woody  fiber.  The 
leaves  are  their  laboratories.  The  leaves  have 
done  their  perfect  work  in  August.  There  is 
rich  sap  ready  to  swell  and  ripen  every  man- 
ner of  fruit  or  nut,  also  to  go  down  for  the 
refreshing  of  the  roots,  and  on  the  way,  build 
up  a  ring  of  new  wood. 

Trees  felled  as  the  new  wood  is  hardening, 
give  the  very  best  timber,  provided  the  trunks 
are  at  once  lopped  of  boughs  and  branches. 
Should  they  lie  as  they  fall,  with  all  their  leaves 
and  twigs,  the  wood  becomes  brash  and  life- 
less, warping  easily  and  hard  to  work.  It 
never  splits  freely,  but  with  a  ragged  eating-in 
of  the  grain.  Windfalls,  which  are  very  plenty 
thanks  to  August  thunderstorms,  thus  are 
often  of  no  value,  except  for  firewood.  But 
whether  wind-felled,  or  ax-felled,  the  timber 
lasts  twice  as  long  as  that  cut  in  May  or  June. 
Big  trees  do  not  sprout  after  August  cutting, 
and  even  tenacious  shrubs  like  sassafras  often 
die  of  it.  Indeed,  there  is  a  short  period  in 


68  Next  to  the  Ground 

the  month  when  woody  things  die  almost  at  a 
touch.  The  stroke  of  an  ax,  a  wheel  jolting 
roughly  over  an  exposed  root,  the  wrenching 
of  a  branch,  or  a  slight  wound  to  the  bark 
may  be  fatal  then  to  the  tallest,  sturdiest  oak. 
Greenly  alive  to-day,  to-morrow  it  may  be 
withered  to  the  tip,  and  next  week  dry  and 
dead.  Yet  lightning  scathe  is  not  so  deadly 
as  in  early  spring,  though  if  the  lightning 
shatters  the  tree,  particularly  an  oak  tree,  it 
often  makes  the  wood  more  durable  than  even 
felling.  Slivers  of  it  stay  sound  and  keep 
shape,  after  whole  trunks,  cut  and  left  on  the 
ground,  have  rotted  and  crumbled. 

Old  man  Shack,  who  rented  a  place  in  the 
flat  woods,  claimed  to  know  by  the  moon  just 
when  this  time  of  danger  came  round.  If 
Major  Baker  did  not  fully  credit  the  claim,  he 
was  too  wise  in  the  unwrit  ways  of  wind  and 
weather,  and  life,  and  growth,  to  scout  it  al- 
together. So  he  took  advice  of  the  old  man 
before  setting  men  at  work  in  the  bush  pas- 
ture—  fifty  acres  of  tangle  he  had  bought  only 
the  fall  before.  He  had  wanted  it  all  the  years 
it  had  lain  waste,  but  the  title  had  been  clouded 
with  a  suit  in  chancery.  When  the  suit  ended 
in  a  decree  of  partition,  he  snapped  up  the 
field,  although  to  get  it  he  had  to  take  also  a 
hundred  acres  in  the  flat  woods,  for  which  he 
did  not  greatly  care. 


The  Ragged  Month  69 

The  fallow  ground  lay  next  it,  running 
broadside  to  it  indeed.  There  was  a  worm- 
fence  between  —  a  line  fence,  rightly  charge- 
able as  much  to  one  field  as  the  other,  though 
Major  Baker  had  kept  it  up  the  ten  years 
past.  Upon  his  side,  the  corners  were  un- 
picturesquely  clean,  but  those  opposite  made 
up  for  the  fact.  They  were  ablaze  with  yel- 
low, and  purple  and  scarlet.  Golden-rod, 
ironweed,  early  asters,  Spanish  needles,  white 
sumach  grew  tall  there  and  rampant  —  higher 
than  a  tall  man's  head.  Bents  of  the  barrens 
grass  also  —  as  lusty  as  in  the  pioneer  days, 
when  it  covered  the  whole  face  of  the  earth, 
and  could  be  tied  over  a  horse's  neck  as  a 
rider  threaded  it.  Occasionally  there  were 
sedge  clumps,  not  quite  so  tall  as  the  grass. 
Sedge  loves  the  light  earth  of  a  hedge-row  but 
cannot  live  in  the  thick  shade. 

Many  other  things  love  it.  A  fence-row 
is  indeed  the  chosen  haunt  of  vagrant  woody 
stems.  Elder  bushes,  hazels,  wild  cherries, 
wild  roses,  wild  grapes,  seedling  apples,  black- 
thorns, peach-trees,  and  selfsown  honeysuckles 
disputed  ground  in  this  hedgerow  with  the 
legions  and  cohorts  of  sassafras  and  black- 
berry. Joe  loved  the  sights  and  sounds  and 
smells  of  the  hedgerow.  His  plough  crept 
near  and  nearer  it  each  day.  He  was  glad  it 
had  been  spared  so  long  —  partly  on  his  own 


jo  Next  to  the  Ground 

account  but  more  because  of  the  birds.  So 
many  had  nested  in  it,  June  cutting  would 
have  been  tragic.  They  sang  very  little  now 
—  only  a  few  broken  notes  before  sunrise, 
but  whenever  he  heard  the  singing  he  won- 
dered whether  there  would  have  been  one  to 
sing  if  his  father  had  not  decided  to  wait 
until  old  man  Shack  said  the  sign  was  right. 
The  sign  came  right  in  the  very  last  week. 
O  but  then  there  was  ruthless  work !  Ax, 
bill-hook,  brier  scythe,  flashed  in  and  out,  in 
and  out,  and  all  the  green  growing  things 
toppled  to  a  fall.  They  were  cut  level  with 
the  ground  and  left  to  lie  as  they  fell.  The 
growth  was  so  thick  there  was  no  need  of 
piling.  Green  sedge  and  dry  was  matted 
over  every  yard  of  earth  the  bushes  had  left 
clear.  The  cutting  was  a  tough  job,  but  so 
many  hands  were  laid  to  it  there  was  a  fine 
race  betwixt  cutters  and  fallowers  as  to  which 
should  get  done  first.  Dan  had  finished  in 
the  pea  ground  and  come  over  to  Joe's  help. 
The  land  was  by  that  time  so  big  a  dozen 
ploughs  might  have  run  in  it  at  once.  Next 
to  the  last  day,  they  slipped  out  at  daybreak, 
and  ploughed  at  night  till  moonrise,  yet  for 
all  that,  had  barely  time  to  raise  a  triumphant 
shout  and  head  their  teams  for  the  bars,  with 
the  ploughs  jingling  against  the  pebbles  as 
they  dragged  behind,  before  an  answering 


The  Ragged  Month  7 1 

shout  told  them  the  last  bush  had  fallen  al- 
most as  the  last  furrow  was  run. 

Joe  flung  himself  down  upon  the  broken 
ground,  and  lay  for  a  minute  motionless. 
He  had  made  those  last  rounds  with  set  teeth, 
keeping  up  entirely  upon  his  courage.  It 
had  been  dry  for  ten  days.  The  tramped 
ground  had  broken  up  in  tremendous  yard- 
long  clods,  and  the  aftermath  had  grown  so 
stout  and  tough  it  choked  twice  as  often  as  at 
first.  He  sat  up  and  looked  down  the  long 
dun  ridges,  ragged  and  blotched  with  wav- 
ing clover  heads,  then  got  up,  and  set  his 
mules  trotting,  yet  as  he  hung  on  to  the 
plough-handle  glanced  across  at  the  crisping 
tangle.  He  had  no  breath  for  speaking.  He 
was  too  tired  even  to  tell  himself  what  he 
was  thinking.  But  Sunday  morning  it  came  to 
him  clearly.  "  It  was  a  battlefield  —  two 
battlefields,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  and  battle- 
fields, where  there  is  so  much  fighting  and 
dying,  are  bound  to  be  ugly." 


BATTLEFIELDS  of  every  sort  in  time 
become  glorified.     The  rain  and  the 
fine  weather,  winds,  sunshine,  and  seed- 
sowing,  glorified  the  fallows.     Frost-fall  found 
them  dressed  in  the  green    velvet   of  strong 
young  wheat.      And  when  the  frost  had  done 


72  Next  to  the  Ground 

its  appointed  work,  of  making  the  sappy  green 
things  sere  and  brown,  fire  came  in  to  the  help 
of  the  tangled  ground. 

The  line  fence  had  been  pulled  down,  its 
sound  rails  taken  away,  its  rotten  ones  cast 
where  they  would  help  feed  the  fire.  Then 
for  almost  a  day  Slow  Pete  and  the  cross- 
matched  team  ran  furrows  round  about  the 
tangle's  other  boundaries.  Half  an  hour  by 
sun,  the  plough  stopped.  The  sky  was  faintly 
overcast,  and  the  wind  sitting  due  south, 
freshened  so  fast  as  to  hint  of  rain.  The 
ground  was  dry  and  warm  —  powder-dry  in 
spots.  The  leafy  bushes,  the  sedge,  the  dead 
weeds,  were  as  quick  as  tinder.  They  were  so 
dry,  indeed,  Major  Baker  thought  it  safest  to 
fire  the  field  first  against  the  wind  —  that  is, 
along  the  north  end  before  setting  it  along  the 
south. 

Eating  its  way  thus  against  the  wind,  he 
knew  the  flame  would  be  less  likely  to  leap 
the  barrier  of  fresh  earth.  If  once  it  did  whip 
across,  it  might  creep  into  the  flat-woods,  and 
that  would  mean  a  running  fight  several  miles 
long.  He  hated  to  see  woods  burned  over, 
no  matter  who  owned  them  ;  it  hurt  the  tim- 
ber so,  and  never  helped  anything,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  destroying  the  mast,  and  killing  thrifty 
saplings.  There  might  have  been  reason  for 
it,  in  pioneer  days,  when  there  was  no  open 


The  Ragged  Month  73 

land  for  pastures,  and  stock  of  every  sort  ran 
out.  Nimble  Will  always  grew  quicker  and 
stronger  and  sweeter  upon  burnt  land  —  so  did 
the  grasses  of  the  little  open  meadows  scat- 
tered through  the  woods.  Times  had  changed. 
Then  land  and  timber  were  both  plenty 
enough  to  be  had  anywhere  almost  without 
asking.  Now  when  both  had  settled  yet  con- 
stantly growing  values,  it  was  well  worth 
while  to  look  out  for  them. 

So  Joe,  Dan,  and  half  a  dozen  more,  ran 
about  with  lighted  sedge  torches,  firing  the 
tangle  a  yard  in  front  of  the  eating  flame,  until 
the  sun  went  down.  The  burned  over  strip 
was  some  thirty  yards  across.  Major  Baker 
waved  his  hand.  Instantly  there  was  a  race 
toward  the  other  edge,  not  across  the  brushy 
space,  but  down  the  furrows,  or  the  fallows. 
Slow  Pete  won  the  race,  with  Dan  a  close 
second,  still  Joe  had  the  luck  to  set  the  first 
fire.  The  black  fellows  tried  to  light  their 
torches  from  matches,  which  the  wind  blew 
out  as  soon  as  they  were  struck.  Joe  shel- 
tered his  very  first  match  with  his  hat,  until 
he  could  drop  it  upon  a  little  pile  of  leaves  ; 
then  the  trick  was  done  —  there  was  fire  and 
to  spare  for  everybody. 

Swiftly,  lightly,  the  firemen  ran  up  and 
down  the  line  bent  almost  double  so  as 
to  trail  the  flaming  torches  close  along 


74  Next  to  the  Ground 

the  furrow  edge.  In  a  minute  the  work 
was  over.  Banners  and  pennons  of  flame 
leaped  up  into  the  sky,  swirled  into  roaring 
vortexes,  and  swept  hissing,  roaring,  crack- 
ling, sparking  in  showers,  smoking  in  clouds, 
in  sheeted  splendor  down  the  length  of  the 
field.  In  the  swales  where  the  tangle  lay 
thickest,  there  was  a  curious  drawing  of  flame 
to  flame.  Lesser  flames  either  side  joined  to 
shape  a  fiery  pyramid,  whose  waving  point 
seemed  to  melt  into  the  low  clouds.  Swiftly 
falling  darkness  made  the  flames  majestic. 
Their  light  filled  all  the  fields  and  flickered 
back  like  the  angry  crimson  of  sunset  from 
the  gable  windows  of  the  plantation  house. 
The  fallows  were  so  bright,  you  could  trace 
the  green  drill-rows  half  across  them.  The 
moon,  creeping  up  behind  clouds,  the  round, 
red  Hunter's  Moon  of  late  October,  turned 
garish  and  ghastly  by  contrast  with  the  field 
fire. 

Undervoicing  the  flame,  there  was  the  pop- 
ping of  hollow  weed  stalks,  the  tinkle  of 
woody  stems  crisping  and  falling  in  coals. 
Between  them  wind  and  fire  were  making 
quick  work  and  clean.  They  would  leave 
hardly  a  wagon  load  of  bush-butts  and  charred 
sticks  in  the  whole  field.  The  burning  sassa- 
fras gave  out  a  clean,  strong  scent,  wonderfully 
pleasant.  Young  pithy  stalks  of  it  popped  like 


The  Ragged  Month  75 

the  weeds,  and  the  woody  stems  sparkled  and 
sputtered  like  cannon  crackers  after  the  flame 
had  swept  on. 

Once  it  seemed  the  fire  must  break  out,  in 
spite  of  burning  and  land  turning.  Just  as 
the  foremost  tongue  of  flame  came  to  the 
burned  over  strip,  a  savage  flaw  of  wind  caught 
it,  bore  it  almost  flat  against  the  earth,  and 
stretched,  stretched  it,  until  it  lapped  the  outer- 
most furrow.  Five  seconds  more  of  the  flaw, 
and  the  mischief  would  have  been  irrevocable. 
The  wind  lightened  barely  in  time.  The  flame 
wavered,  hovered  in  air,  curled  backward,  died 
to  a  smoulder  of  smoke,  above  sheeted  smoking 
embers.  As  it  died,  Major  Baker  let  his  hand 
slip  from  Joe's  shoulder,  and  said  with  a  deep 
breath,  "  Son,  that  was  touch  and  go  —  a 
mighty  near  thing.  Don't  forget  it.  Don't 
forget  either  that  fore-handed  trouble  is  safe 
trouble.  Suppose  we  had  not  fired  against  the 
wind  first  ? " 

"  O  !  I  reckon  we  would  have  been  fightin' 
fire  until  it  rained,"  Joe  said.  "That  would 
have  been  —  let 's  see  !  —  one,  two,  three  days. 
The  moon  's  got  a  ring  round  her  with  just 
three  stars  inside  it." 

Though  the  clouded  moon  filled  the  world 
with  gray  shining,  it  seemed  to  the  fire- 
watchers  black  darkness  came  with  the  dying 
of  the  flames.  The  field  had  burned  over  in 


7  6  Next  to  the  Ground 

ten  minutes.  It  would  have  taken  half  an 
hour  by  daylight,  with  clouds  and  the  same 
wind.  In  still  sunshine  it  would  have  taken 
half  a  day,  yet  been  nothing  like  so  well  done. 
Why,  is  among  the  curious  small  secrets  of 
nature's  processes  the  wise  men  have  yet  to 
find  out.  The  cave-dwellers  no  doubt  knew 
that  sunshine  had  a  trick  of  making  fire  burn 
languidly,  yet  their  remote  descendants  have 
not  gone  much  beyond  the  fact. 

Joe  went  home  over  the  burned  ground, 
stepping  out  sturdily  at  his  father's  side.  The 
earth  was  still  warm  —  warm  enough  to  pene- 
trate thick  boot  soles.  It  was  light  too  — 
so  light  in  places  they  sank  shoe-mouth  deep, 
and  in  other  places  the  sedge  tussocks  came  up 
for  a  sound  kick.  Given  its  own  time,  its  own 
way,  and  freedom  from  trampling  hoofs,  sedge 
loosens  land  marvelously,  and  .makes  it  rich. 
The  drawback  is,  it  takes  so  much  time.  Un- 
like clover  it  neither  feeds  on  the  air  nor  breeds 
enriching  spores.  Its  work  is  mechanical  — 
the  roots  creep,  the  stalks  shelter,  the  leaves 
droop  as  a  mulch  to  entangle  air  and  moisture, 
which  are  the  primal  soil-solvents.  By  their 
help  the  mineral  particles  break  down,  as,  on  a 
bigger  scale,  stone  and  pebble  broke  down  to 
sand  and  clay.  Then  the  rotting  mulch  adds 
humus — the  leaf  mould  in  which  all  grow- 
ing things  delight.  Further,  the  mulch  catches 


The  Ragged  Month  77 

and  saves  the  field-drift,  leaves,  weed-stems, 
dead  insects,  every  sort  of  flotsam,  for  the 
strengthening  of  the  land.  Best  of  all,  it 
keeps  the  soil  itself  receptive.  How  impor- 
tant that  is,  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact 
that  the  richest  manure  is  almost  worthless  if 
left  to  dry  and  leach  out  on  hard  ground  in 
sunshine  and  rain.  There  have  been  men, 
indeed,  who  declared  that  air  was  the  one  all- 
sufficient  fertilizer  for  any  land  in  fair  condi- 
tion. They  advocated  cultivating  the  whole 
surface  but  taking  crops  from  but  half  of  it, 
planting  strips  of  it  alternately  upon  alternate 
years.  Sedge  works  along  their  lines,  but 
makes  haste  much  more  slowly. 

Rotting  is  only  slow  combustion.  Decay 
or  fire,  the  end  alike  is  ashes.  Ashes  quicken 
and  hearten  whatever  ground  they  fall  on. 
Joe  was  glad  he  could  kick  them  up  in  stifling 
clouds  wherever  he  stepped.  He  looked  over 
the  blackened  earth  set  thick  with  red  winking 
points,  and  smiled  to  think  of  next  year's  crop  ; 
yet,  in  almost  the  same  breath,  he  sighed. 
Somehow  he  had  loved  the  tangle  better  than 
the  smooth  home  fields.  All  the  wild  things 
were  his  friends  —  even  the  pushing  sassafras. 
He  had  shot  his  first  rabbit  there,  and  caught 
his  first  trapful  of  birds.  It  had  never  been 
like  the  crawfishy  strip,  sombre,  savage,  thorny, 
but  an  elfin  solitude,  full  of  tricksy  surprises. 


78  Next  to  the  Ground 

There  had  been  a  settler's  cabin  upon  one 
corner  of  it,  and  still  in  the  garden  spot  mint 
came  up  every  year.  Occasionally  also  there 
were  cornflowers,  blue  and  white  and  purple, 
horehound  stalks,  and  deep  red  single  poppies. 
Sweetbrier  persisted  too,  rooted  under  the 
pile  of  rock  that  had  been  the  chimney.  On 
beyond  there  was  a  plum  thicket.  The  plums 
were  red  and  yellow,  very  small,  but  very 
plenty,  and  full  of  sweet  juice.  Periodically 
the  thicket  was  cut  down,  as  were  the  locust 
sprouts,  but  both  grew  up  again,  only  the 
thriftier  for  the  cutting. 

Joe  was  curious  as  to  whether  they  would 
grow  now  that  they  had  been  cut  when  the 
sign  was  right.  He  rather  hoped  they  would, 
partly  out  of  friendliness,  but  more  for  the 
confounding  of  old  man  Shack. 


The  Hog 


Chapter  IV 


|OE  had  been  taught  chivalry 
by  precept  and  example, 
also  to  understand  that 
chivalry  is,  in  essence,  but 
the  consideration  of 
strength  for  weakness. 
"  A  gentleman  owed  him- 

D 

self  courtesy  toward  every- 
body," said  his  father, "  but  was  doubly  bound 
to  be  courteous  to  women,  little  children,  old 
men,  and  men  poorer  than  himself."  Thus 
the  lad's  dislike  of  old  man  Shack  was  not 
grounded  in  the  fact  of  the  old  man's  being 
a  poor  white.  A  man  could  not  help  it  no 
matter  what  he  was  born,  but  he  could  help 
accepting  the  poor  white  condition,  after  he 
had  grown  up  to  a  man's  strength,  and  a 
man's  chance. 

Old  man  Shack  stood  six  foot  two,  barefoot, 
was  a  jack-of-all-trades,  and  could  beat  any 
man  in  the  county,  black  or  white,  at  a  log- 


82  Next  to  the  Ground 

rolling,  a  chopping  frolic,  cradling  wheat, 
wrestling,  or  pitching  horseshoes.  He  was 
not  really  old  —  a  little  under  forty ;  but  he 
had  married  at  sixteen,  and  had  twin  sons 
rising  twenty,  so  it  was  necessary  in  some 
way  to  distinguish  him.  Beyond  that,  his 
family  never  called  him  anything  else.  When 
he  was  in  the  humor  for  boasting,  he  said 
he  had  moved  seventeen  times  since  his  wed- 
ding day,  had  brought  up  twelve  children, 
and  was  a  sow  and  pigs  and  three  yearlings 
better  off  than  when  he  married. 

He  showed  a  sort  of  cynical  pride  in  his 
shiftlessness,  and  cynical  contempt  for  good 
repute.  He  let  all  his  stock  run  out  on  the 
range,  even  when  he  had  a  pasture  handy. 
Joe  had  never  quite  got  over  hearing  him  say 
with  a  grin  :  "  I  woon't  have  no  mark  but 
the  rogue's  mark  —  both  ears  cut  off  close  to 
the  head."  Marks,  properly  earmarks,  are 
important  things  on  a  farm.  Law  takes 
cognizance  of  them  —  it  is  actionable  to 
change  or  counterfeit  an  established  mark. 
Considering  that  the  beasts  of  the  field  have 
but  two  ears,  the  variety  possible  in  marks 
is  astounding.  Their  primary  elements,  the 
crop,  half-crop,  slit,  hole,  swallow-fork,  un- 
der-bit, and  over-bit,  may  be  used,  singly, 
or  together,  in  above  five  hundred  ways  — 
as  slit-and-crop,  slit-and-under-bit,  slit-and- 


The  Hog  83 

over-bit,  slit  right,  crop  left,  both  ears  slit, 
slit  and  swallow-fork,  swallow-fork,  slit  and 
hole.  Merciful  men  mark  as  lightly  as  pos- 
sible; suspicious  ones  cut  ears  to  rags  and 
tatters.  In  a  question  of  ownership  there  is 
no  going  behind  an  authentic  mark  well 
healed.  Likewise  a  mark  bloody,  and  visibly 
tampered  with,  is  convincing  proof  of  theft. 

It  is  not  easy  to  tamper  with  marks.  The 
cuts  toughen  so  in  healing  they  almost  turn 
the  edge  of  the  later  knife.  Taking  off  the 
whole  ear  is  quickest  and  safest.  If  old  man 
Shack  did  not  really  do  it,  he  wanted  his 
neighbors  to  think  he  was  quite  bold  enough 
and  bad  enough  for  such  work.  It  was  of 
a  piece  with  his  vaporings  as  to  what  he 
might  be  or  do  if  he  "  was  not  so  cussed 
lazy."  He  had,  according  to  himself,  poten- 
tialities for  anything  betwixt  robbing  a  train 
and  making  a  million  dollars.  Joe  did  not 
believe  the  half  of  that,  but  he  did  believe,  if 
the  old  man  chose  to  work  only  half  as  in- 
dustriously as  he  chose  to  idle,  he  could  not 
help  but  be  much  better  off. 

The  Baker  mark,  a  crop  in  the  right,  under- 
bit  in  the  left,  ran  back  through  the  pioneer- 
ing Baker  and  certain  Carolina  planters  to  the 
original  English  emigrants,  two  brothers  from 
the  borders  of  the  New  Forest.  They  were 
yeomen,  also  young  men  —  which  yeomen 


84  Next  to  the  Ground 

originally  signified.  According  to  an  old  invent- 
ory, they  brought  the  mark  with  them,  upon 
the  ears  of  some  pigs,  white  with  a  black  list 
over  the  loins.  No  doubt  the  pigs  were  both 
marked  and  listed  like  others  that,  before  com- 
ing out,  the  Bakers  had  sent  feeding  in  the  New 
Forest  through  the  time  of  pannage. 

Pannage  ran  for  six  weeks  from  the  first 
of  September.  For  every  hog  feeding  through 
it,  a  shilling  was  paid  to  the  king's  majesty, 
through  the  hand  of  his  verdurer.  Most 
likely  the  king's  majesty  never  touched  a  groat 
of  the  shilling,  but  his  liege  subjects  revelled 
in  rashers  of  beech-nut  bacon.  Joe  liked  to 
think  of  that  old  time  —  the  hogs  going  out 
in  charge  of  the  village  herd,  to  range  and  riot 
through  the  woodland,  and  sleep  at  night  in 
the  sweet-smelling  new-fallen  leaves.  He  had 
three  books  about  the  royal  forests.  One  of 
them  was  old  —  so  old  it  was  full  of  puzzling 
long  esses,  which  half  the  time  he  took  at  first 
for  efs.  They  were  the  books  of  books  for 
winter  nights  and  rainy  Sundays.  He  was 
sure  he  would  have  read  them  over  and  over, 
and  loved  them  quite  as  he  did,  even  if  no 
traditions  had  come  down  to  give  a  personal 
accent  to  the  forest  history. 

Something  else  had  come  down.  Atavism, 
the  tendency  to  throw  back,  is  strong  in  all 
domestic  animals.  The  throwing  back  is 


The  Hog  85 

nearly  always  to  remote  ancestors  rather  than 
near  ones.  Each  and  several,  the  Bakers  had 
crossed  all  their  stock  judiciously,  but  every 
year  or  two,  among  the  litters  at  White  Oaks, 
there  was  a  white  pig  with  a  broad  black  list 
over  the  loins.  Commonly  the  listed  pigs  had 
also  a  black  spot  back  of  the  ears,  or  over  the 
eyes.  A  pig's  coat  is  colored  in  skin  as  well 
as  hair.  In  the  list,  the  black  skin  was  bigger 
than  the  black  hair,  so  there  was  a  band  of 
silver-gray  all  around  — white  hairs  with  black 
skin  showing  through. 

It  was  not  for  lack  of  pasture  that  Major 
Baker  let  his  hogs  run  in  the  flat-woods  toward 
the  end  of  summer.  He  knew  the  run- 
ning out  made  them  healthier  and  more  vig- 
orous. They  found  in  the  woods  a  mysterious 
tonic,  a  root  it  might  be,  or  a  seed,  or  some 
quality  of  the  earth  itself.  They  went  in  and 
out  at  pleasure,  through  a  slip-gap  in  the  back 
fence,  and  were  called  and  fed  beside  the  gap 
every  morning.  The  most  part  came  to  the 
call,  but  nobody  worried  over  absentees  until 
they  had  been  three  days  unseen.  Hogs  have 
a  curious  sense  of  time  —  these  knew  to  a 
minute  when  their  salt  and  ashes  were  due — 
upon  Wednesday  and  Saturday  mornings.  A 
hog  that  did  not  come  up  then,  might  reason- 
ably be  set  down  as  either  sick,  stolen,  or 
strayed. 


86  Next  to  the  Ground 

In  general,  straying  was  not  so  easy.  Hogs 
of  different  pastures  might  range  the  woods  to- 
gether, feeding  and  grunting  amicably,  even 
seeming  to  gossip,  in  cheerful  piggish  fashion, 
yet  when  they  took  the  path  home,  woe  to 
him  who  tried  to  go  except  where  he  belonged. 
At  night  the  going  was  in  single  file,  one  trot- 
ting right  on  the  heels  of  another,  and  all 
squealing  as  they  went.  At  morning,  in  an- 
swer to  the  call,  there  was  a  rush  pell  mell  as 
fast  as  they  could  leg  it,  tumbling  and  squeal- 
ing hungrily  all  the  way.  Either  at  night  or 
morning  a  stray  had  to  fight  for  his  place.  If 
he  conquered  a  place  then  and  there,  all  well. 
If  not,  he  had  to  lag  a  long  way  behind,  hang 
hungrily  about,  and  endure  the  pangs  of  Tan- 
talus until  his  enemies  were  too  busy  eating 
to  have  a  thought  for  him. 

Still,  there  were  exceptions.  In  every  drove, 
there  are  now  and  then  individuals  who  de- 
light to  entice  in  outlanders.  Sometimes  they 
choose  fine,  fat,  well-appearing,  young  hogs, 
very  well  worth  stealing.  Oftener  choice  falls 
upon  a  leggy,  slouchy  animal,  with  long  coarse 
bristles,  and  a  very  keen  nose.  All  day  long 
the  enticer  ranges  and  roots  beside  him,  rub- 
bing shoulders  with  him,  putting  nose  to  nose, 
and  sniffing  amicably,  scratching  him  behind 
the  forearm,  and,  when  he  wallows,  along  the 
backbone.  Then  when  it  is  time  to  go  home, 


The  Hog  87 

if  the  victim  hangs  back  in  fear,  or  the  other 
members  of  the  drove  grunt  out  threats,  the 
enticer  falls  instantly  to  rooting,  but  roots  so 
as  to  keep  the  victim  headed  the  way  he  should 
not  go.  After  the  drove  is  running  well  in 
line  there  may  be  a  pretty  bit  of  by-play  —  the 
victim  trying  to  lay  a  homeward  course,  and 
the  other  blocking  his  way.  Often  the  two 
of  them  stand  for  ten  minutes  face  to  face, 
twiddling  noses  one  around  the  other  as  you 
might  twiddle  ringers.  The  chances  are  that, 
next  morning,  that  particular  drove  will  boast 
a  stray  inmate,  or  the  morning  after  at  the 
latest.  Once  the  stray  is  well  wonted,  the 
captor  takes  no  notice  of  him,  but  goes  after 
another.  The  passion  for  conquest  indeed 
seems  to  grow  by  what  it  feeds  on. 

Only  the  fattening  hogs  ever  thus  ran  out. 
The  sows  and  pigs  were  kept  in  the  woods  pas- 
ture, beside  the  creek,  where  they  had  clear 
water  to  drink  and  wallow  in,  and  leaves  a 
plenty  for  their  beds.  Straw  beds  or  litter, 
made  them  mangy  —  even  grass  and  sedge, 
though  wholesome  enough,  did  not  compare 
with  leaves.  The  sows  did  not  sleep  all  to- 
gether, cross-and-pile,  as  did  the  fattening  hogs. 
Just  before  farrowing  each  made  herself  a  new 
bed,  choosing  for  it  the  most  sheltered  and 
sequestered  spot  she  could  find. 

Hogs  are  artistic  bed-makers.    In  the  woods 


88  Next  to  the  Ground 

the  first  thing  is  to  gnaw  off,  or  pull  up,  the 
low  bushes  over  a  space  several  yards  across ; 
next  the  leaves  are  rooted  up,  and  inward,  in 
a  ring.  Then  the  bed-makers  get  inside  the 
ring,  put  their  fore  legs  over  the  heaped  leaves, 
and  deftly  draw  them  back,  until  the  ring  nar- 
rows to  a  pyramid.  A  suckling  sow  plumps 
down  right  in  the  middle  of  her  bed,  whirls 
round  and  round  until  she  has  snugly  hollowed 
a  cup  big  enough  to  lie  in,  then  calls  in  her 
litter,  bestows  them  beside  and  slightly  under- 
neath her,  and  with  her  nose  tosses  leaves 
lightly  over  them,  as  well  as  over  her  own 
back  and  shoulders.  When  at  last  she  lies 
down  she  is  invisible,  under  a  leaf  coverlet  six 
inches  thick.  Until  she  begins  to  think  of 
weaning  her  pigs,  she  fights  everything  else 
away  from  the  bed.  In  the  hottest  summer 
weather  she  makes  for  herself  and  her  children 
a  bed  of  fresh  clean  earth,  light  and  dry,  but 
not  dusty.  She  will  wallow  all  day  in  mud, 
and  keep  her  piggies  beside  her,  but  will  not 
sleep  in  it. 

Hogs  are  wonderfully  sensitive  to  weather 
influences.  They  squeal  and  run  restlessly 
about  hours  in  advance  of  a  storm.  They 
have  also  some  mysterious  faculty  which  warns 
of  coming  cold,  hardly  waiting  to  feed  some- 
times before  they  rush  to  work,  thickening 
their  beds,  and  heaping  them  anew.  They 


The  Hog  89 

bite  down  leafy  bushes  and  run  almost  incredi- 
ble distances,  holding  them  in  their  mouths. 
In  making  beds  of  sedge  they  ingeniously  avoid 
the  tussocks,  by  planting  their  fore  feet  firmly 
upon  the  roots,  then  gathering  a  mouthful  of 
stalks,  and  gnawing  arid  snatching  them  off. 
But  they  are  so  lazy  they  will  cling  to  the 
same  bed  year  after  year,  if  permitted,  only 
now  and  then  bringing  in  a  little  fresh  bed- 
stuff.  A  drove-bed  is  always  big  and  broad, 
but  if  fifty  sleep  in  it,  the  aim  of  each  indi- 
vidual pig  is  always  to  lie  in  the  middle  with 
all  the  rest  for  cover.  As  a  result,  upon  nights 
when  the  cold  strengthens  greatly,  there  is  not 
much  rest  in  it,  but  a  continuous  hurly-burly 
of  crowding  and  squealing.  After  deep  snows, 
or  in  days  of  cold  rain,  hogs  keep  in  the  bed 
until  driven  out  by  hunger.  Young  pigs  creep 
out  of  it  at  three  days  old,  if  the  weather  is 
fine.  If  it  is  cold  and  stormy,  they  lie  inside 
a  week. 

Before  they  come  out,  it  is  easy  to  tell  how 
many  the  sow  is  suckling.  Like  the  most  of 
litter-borne  animals,  pigs  keep  to  the  teat  they 
first  began  to  suck.  After  a  day  or  two  teats 
that  do  not  suckle  grow  dry  and  small  —  thus 
by  the  teats  in  milk,  you  may  know  the  num- 
ber of  pigs.  A  sow  always  lies  down  to  suckle, 
though  if  the  pigs  are  hungry  they  are  apt  to 
catch  the  teats,  and  squeal  shrill  complaints 


90  Next  to  the  Ground 

before  she  lies  down,  maybe  while  she  is  feed- 
ing. As  she  drops,  she  gives  a  little  grunting 
call.  If  the  pigs  are  in  the  bed,  they  rush  out 
in  answer  to  it,  and  fall  all  over  each  other, 
as  they  range  themselves  along  her  side.  Each 
lays  hold  upon  the  teat  that  comes  handiest, 
but  almost  instantly  lets  go,  and  burrows  under 
the  pig  next,  in  search  of  his  proper  fountain. 
The  search  is  so  vigorous,  for  a  minute  the 
litter  looks  to  be  boiling  all  over.  But  when  at 
last  the  cunning  creatures  are  properly  placed 
there  is  nowhere  a  better  picture  of  mother 
care  and  infantile  content. 

Pigs  learn  to  nip  tender  green  stuff  before 
they  are  two  weeks  old.  At  six  they  can  crack 
shelled  corn  cleverly  ;  but  White  Oaks  pigs 
did  not  wait  so  long  for  grain.  They  had  a 
pen  inside  the  woods  pasture,  with  a  gap  too 
low  for  the  mothers  to  go  through.  There 
were  troughs  inside  for  mush  and  milk.  The 
saucy  rascals  throve  as  mightily  as  they  ate. 
They  knew  whoever  fed  them  as  far  as  they 
could  see,  and  always  ran  to  meet  him  and 
followed  him  to  the  pen,  squealing  in  chorus. 
If  he  stopped  to  rest,  the  squeals  grew  agon- 
izing —  the  squealers  meantime  huddling 
thicker,  and  standing  upon  their  hind  feet, 
with  the  fore  feet  resting  against  him.  The 
sows  followed  too,  though  not  quite  so  im- 
petuously. While  the  pigs  ate,  their  mothers 


The  Hog  91 

ran  round  the  pen,  snuffing  and  grunting  com- 
plaints, though  they  were  fed  twice  a  day,  not 
to  name  the  pasture.  No  hog  of  any  sort  ever 
saw  eating  going  on  without  wanting  a  share. 
What,  then,  could  one  expect  of  suckling 
mothers  ? 

Bold,  gluttonous  fellows  among  the  pigs, 
climbed  bodily  into  the  low  troughs,  and  lay 
there  swilling.  Joe  laughed  to  see  that  they 
chose  always  to  lie  in  the  low  ends  where  the 
mush  and  milk  was  deepest.  Often  it  came 
half  way  up  their  sleek  sides.  He  fancied 
they  lay  down  over  as  much  of  it  as  possible 
to  keep  it  from  the  rest.  He  had  caught  his 
father's  knack  of  picking  up  a  pig  by  the  tail 
and  swinging  him  gently  back  and  forth  to 
judge  his  weight  and  growth.  So  held,  a  pig 
does  not  squeal,  though  he  opens  his  mouth, 
as  though  he  would  like  to  do  it.  Pig-thieves 
take  advantage  of  the  fact.  They  shell  corn 
all  around  their  feet,  then  when  the  pigs  are 
eating  seize  upon  a  fat  one,  lift  him  up,  and 
stun  him  by  a  fist-blow  between  the  eyes. 

And  thus  they  get  safe  away.  Ear  or  leg- 
hold  makes  a  pig  squeal  loudly,  no  matter  how 
tame  he  may  be.  A  curious  thing  is  that 
sows  or  hogs  of  any  sort,  which  pay  no  atten- 
tion whatever  to  the  squealing  for  food,  start 
upon  the  dead  run,  bristling,  giving  out  angry 
guttural  roars,  and  gnashing  their  tusks  until 


92  Next  to  the  Ground 

foam  flies  the  minute  they  hear  a  squeal  of  dis- 
tress. Yet  to  human  ears  one  squeal  is  the 
same  as  the  other.  Hogs  know  the  difference, 
as  they  know  the  difference  in  calls.  Three 
men  may  be  calling  outside  droves  at  once, 
and  each  call  be  audible  to  all  the  droves,  yet 
there  are  no  mistakes.  The  animals  are  never 
in  doubt  as  to  where  they  belong. 

The  gregarious  instinct  of  defense  is  still 
lively  among  hogs.  A  drove  of  all  sizes  will 
upon  the  approach  of  a  dog,  a  fox,  or,  if  half 
wild,  a  man,  form  itself  into  a  ring,  with  the 
pigs  and  young  hogs  in  the  middle,  the  strong 
tuskers  outside,  and  stand  heads  out,  gnashing 
and  bristling,  until  the  marauder  slinks  out 
of  sight.  If  instead  of  slinking  he  ventures 
upon  attack,  the  ring  roars  louder  than  ever, 
and  stretches  to  meet  him,  still  keeping  forma- 
tion, though  it  may  be  so  elongated  the  two 
lines  almost  touch. 

A  wise  man  will  not  rashly  invite  the  ring's 
attack,  neither  will  a  wise  dog.  A  boar  three 
years  old  has  tusks  often  several  inches  long, 
very  much  curved,  and  sharp  as  a  knife.  Sows 
of  full  age  are  nearly  as  formidable  —  some- 
times indeed  they  are  the  fiercest  fighters  of 
the  drove,  ripping  and  rending  whatever  they 
can  reach.  An  angry  hog  is  a  wicked  antag- 
onist, —  bloodshot,  foaming,  with  sinews  tense 
as  cords.  Solitary  he  can  beat  off  half  a  dozen 


The  Hog  93 

hounds  as  they  come  at  him.  In  the  ring, 
where  there  is  no  chance  of  escaping  his  tusks, 
he  is  well  nigh  invincible.  Experienced  dogs 
never  venture  upon  a  direct  charge.  They 
halt  a  little  way  off,  leaping  and  howling  an- 
grily. Then,  when  the  quarry  makes  his  rush, 
the  aim  is  to  leap  aside,  and,  as  he  passes, 
wheel,  and  nip  him  by  the  ear.  A  game  dog 
with  good  ear-hold  may  worry  down  his  hog, 
but  the  chances  are  against  it.  Once  his 
blood  is  well  up,  a  boar  will  commonly  kill 
or  disable  half  a  dozen  dogs  before  giving  up 
the  fight. 

When  a  pig  did  not  thrive  properly,  or  a 
hog  looked  pinched  and  rough,  Major  Baker 
knew  something  was  wrong  with  the  devil- 
marks.  The  marks  are  rows  of  tiny  indenta- 
tions, no  bigger  than  small  peas,  running  down 
the  inside  of  each  fore  leg.  Countryside  super- 
stition has  it  that  the  marks  commemorate  the 
devils  which  went  into  the  herd  of  swine,  and 
made  the  swine  rush  violently  down  into  the 
sea.  However  that  may  be,  nobody  quite 
understands  what  end  they  serve.  They  are 
hairless,  and  without  secretion  of  any  sort,  yet 
if  they  get  full  of  extraneous  matter  the  hog 
shows  it  very  soon.  He  eats  as  well  as  ever, 
and  roots  actively,  but  does  no  credit  to  his 
keeping  until  the  marks  are  cleared. 

Hogs  have  sensitive  palates.     Joe  thought 


94  Next  to  the  Ground 

nobody  could  doubt  that,  after  seeing  them, 
as  he  did,  fight  over  the  ripe  horse-apples  and 
sweetings,  the  while  utterly  neglecting  the  sour 
winter  windfalls,  although  they  were  sound 
and  well-colored.  He  saw  them,  too,  when 
they  were  cloyed  with  juicy  fruit  and  melons, 
rush  at  the  piles  of  seed  from  the  peach- 
drying,  and  stand  for  half  an  hour  craunching 
up  the  hard  shells,  and  dropping  them  out  of 
their  mouths,  yet  keeping  in  the  rich  almond- 
flavored  kernels.  They  could  also  distinguish 
between  ripe  melons  and  sickly  ones  from  dead 
vines.  But  none  of  all  those  things  were  so 
odd  as  their  preference  for  sulphur  water. 
There  was  a  sulphur  spring  in  the  woods 
pasture,  close  on  the  edge  of  the  creek.  The 
sows  would  come  racing  to  the  creek,  with  a 
string  of  pigs  behind,  wade  across,  sometimes 
dropping  to  wallow  if  the  day  .was  very  warm, 
then  come  on  to  the  spring  which  was  nause- 
ously strong,  and  drink  and  drink  until  they 
almost  drained  the  little  rock  basin.  The  taste 
for  sulphur  water,  was,  he  at  last  decided,  an 
acquired  one.  The  Berkshire  gilt,  bought  a 
long  way  off*,  sniffed  it  when  she  saw  the 
others  drinking,  but  turned  up  her  nose  at  it, 
and  waddled  on  to  the  creek. 

The  fattening  hogs  were  put  up  at  White 
Oaks  early  in  September.  They  were  not 
really  penned  until  cold  weather  came.  Major 


The  Hog  95 

Baker  fed  down  standing  corn  in  the  creek 
bottoms.  The  corn  was  planted  in  March, 
laid  by  in  early  June,  and  sowed  with  peas  as 
it  was  laid  by.  The  peas,  vine,  and  pod, 
were  worth  a  third  as  much  as  the  corn  for 
feeding,  then  there  was  the  benefit  to  the  land. 
The  hogs  ate  the  peas  very  nearly  clean,  they 
also  rooted  and  ravaged  out  dormant  insects 
in  the  soil.  It  was  so  light  and  black,  all  sorts 
of  creeping  things  infested  it.  When  old 
man  Shack  scouted  what  he  called  the  sinful 
waste  o'  good  bread-corn  —  with  mast  enough 
a-comin'  to  fatten  hogs  by  the  rigimint,  Major 
Baker  only  smiled  and  said  his  hogs  paid 
for  all  the  corn  they  ate,  in  cut-worms,  bud- 
worms,  and  wire-worms. 

Old  man  Shack  generally  had  hogs  a-plenty, 
but  never  fattened  them  —  he  let  the  mast  do 
it  for  him.  By  the  middle  of  October  the 
flat-woods  were  full  of  acorns  —  unless,  as 
sometimes  happened,  the  mast  had  not  hit. 
Such  years  the  old  man  sold  his  hogs  and 
bought  fat  bacon  of  his  neighbors.  You  did  n't 
never  ketch  him,  he  said,  a-ploughin'  and 
a-sweatin'  to  raise  corn  to  make  meat  for  no 
twelve  children,  an'  wife  an'  dogs  throwed 
in.  He  wouldn't  do  it  —  no  tetch  !  No 
sir-ee  Bob  !  He  'd  swap  a  passel  er  hogs  fer 
all  the  meat  they  'd  fetch  —  ef  they  did  n't 
fetch  enough  —  why  !  his  folks  would  jest 


96  Next  to  the  Ground 

have  to  look  to  either  the  Lord  er  the  county 
for  more. 

Beech-mast  makes  the  finest  pork  in  the 
world  —  not  quite  so  firm  as  grain-fed  meat, 
but  sweeter  and  more  delicate.  Sweet  mast 
—  that  is  to  say,  butternuts,  small  hickory- 
nuts,  chestnuts,  hazelnuts,  white  oak  and 
post  oak  acorns,  give  good,  fairly  firm  fat, 
and  an  agreeable  game  flavor.  Bitter  mast  — 
pignuts,  buckeyes,  red-oak  acorns,  and  those 
of  the  Spanish  oak,  the  black-jack,  water- 
oak,  turkey  oak,  and  over-cup  oak,  make  flesh 
that  is  oily,  somewhat  rank,  slightly  bitter, 
with  yellow  fat  instead  of  white.  Still,  bushel 
for  bushel,  it  makes  more  fat  than  any  except 
pure  beech-mast.  The  yield  is  also  more 
plenty,  and  very  much  more  certain.  The 
flat-woods  mast  was  nearly  all  bitter,  but  old 
man  Shack  was  rather  glad  of  it.  He  called 
hogs  every  morning,  and  gave  them  grudging 
handfuls  of  shattered  corn  — just  enough,  as 
he  explained,  to  ha'nt  'em  home  against 
killin'  time.  Hogs  fed  even  scantily  at  reg- 
ular intervals,  will  come  to  the  feeding-place 
without  calling  at  the  feeding  time,  often  per- 
sisting for  weeks  after  feeding  has  ceased. 

The  instinct  is  turned  to  account  against 
wild  hogs.  With  a  wide  stretch  of  woods, 
and  mast  in  plenty,  there  are  always  adven- 
turous individuals  to  stray  into  the  wooded 


The  Hog  97 

depths,  establish  themselves,  and  breed  there 
year  after  year.  Such  animals  are  truly 
wild,  running  away  like  deer  at  the  least 
alarm,  and,  like  deer,  able  to  wind  the  hunter. 
They  run  when  they  can,  and  fight  when 
they  must.  The  cracking  of  a  dead  branch 
beneath  the  foot,  or  a  single  incautious  yelp 
from  a  dog,  sends  them  off  like  a  shot,  so 
long  as  the  danger  is  unseen.  It  is  when  it 
comes  in  plain  sight  they  begin  to  bristle 
and,  in  early  winter  when  they  know  them- 
selves too  fat  to  run  far  or  fast,  make  ready 
for  a  charge.  They  feed  very  early  in  the 
morning,  and  again  towards  dusk,  lying  hid- 
den in  thickets  and  beside  fallen  trees  through 
the  daylight,  and  snug  in  their  beds  through 
the  night.  No  hog,  wild  or  tame,  makes  a 
path  to  his  bed,  though  they  make  strongly 
defined  ones  to  their  feeding  and  drinking 
places.  But  wild  hogs  cannot  feed  without 
leaving  strong  sign  —  the  circles  and  spirals 
rooted  in  the  fallen  leaves  in  search  of  mast. 
All  about  the  rooted  circles  there  will  be 
tracks.  By  the  depth  of  these  tracks  the 
hunter  judges  the  size  and  fatness  of  the 
game.  He  seeks  out  some  very  quiet  place, 
where  tracks  are  plenty,  and  baits  it  —  that  is, 
strews  it  thickly  with  shelled  corn  and  little 
lumps  of  salt.  Then  he  watches  until  the 
bait  has  been  eaten,  and  renews  it,  judging  as 


98  Next  to  the  Ground 

near  as  he  can  whether  it  was  eaten  at  night 
or  morning.  It  may  take  a  dozen  baitings  to 
decide  the  point  —  but  once  it  is  decided,  the 
game  is  in  his  own  hands.  He  goes  before- 
hand, climbs  a  tree,  and  waits,  gun  in  hand. 
A  good  shot  may  knock  over  two  or  three 
hogs  before  they  get  out  of  range.  And  he 
has  only  to  keep  up  the  baiting  and  lying  in 
wait  to  bag  the  whole  drove. 

That  is  wild-hog  hunting  for  profit.  It  is 
much  better  sport  to  track  them  in  light 
snow,  and  run  them  down  with  dogs.  Un- 
less the  hunters  are  well  mounted,  and  the 
woods  open,  they  have  their  trouble  for  their 
pains.  Wild  hogs  swiftly  approximate  the 
razor-back  or  wind-splitter  type  —  lean,  long- 
nosed,  long-legged,  tremendously  muscled. 
Even  when  fattest  they  creep  or  slip  through 
incredibly  small  spaces,  and  can  double  like 
rabbits.  Besides,  they  know  every  nook  and 
corner  and  saving  hollow  of  the  woods,  and 
are  wily  enough  to  lie  snug,  and  let  the  chase 
go  by  almost  over  their  heads.  Running  over 
snow  they  leave  but  a  faint  scent,  and  one 
that  the  dogs  fail  to  pick  up  after  an  hour  or 
so  of  running.  They  can  so  far  outrun 
most  dogs,  they  can  well  afford  to  stop  and 
catch  breath  whenever  they  find  themselves 
tiring.  When  they  come  to  the  end  of  en- 
durance, they  turn  at  bay. 


The  Hog  99 

The  boars  fight  fiercely  among  themselves. 
It  is  very  rare  to  kill  a  boar  even  two  years 
old  with  tusks  unbroken.  They  seldom  kill 
each  other  in  these  fights,  but  the  vanquished 
has  a  cheerful  habit  of  running  away  and 
venting  his  anger  upon  the  trunk  of  a  tree. 
He  rears,  and  gashes  the  bark  of  it  as  high 
as  he  can  reach.  If  he  strikes  a  knot,  the 
gashing  may  cost  him  a  tusk.  Woodsmen 
judge  of  his  size  by  the  height  of  these  gashes. 
When  they  find  gashes  breast-high  they  know 
it  is  time  to  go  wild-hog  hunting.  A  big 
savage  boar  can  go  through  or  over  any 
fence  ever  built,  and,  beside  being  the  worst 
ravager  of  growing  crops,  may  kill  a  flock 
of  lambs,  rip  up  grazing  cattle,  hamstring  a 
colt  or  two,  and  even  attack  human  beings. 


Shooting 


Chapter  V 


IT  is  lawful  in  Tennessee  to 
shoot  over  your  own  land 
any  time  in  the  year,  yet 
the  Bakers,  father  and  son, 
were  sportsmen  enough  to 
observe  religiously  all  the 
close  seasons.  There  was 
none  for  either  rabbits  or 
squirrels.  Indeed  it  was  part  of  the  year's 
work  to  shoot  Mister  Long-Tail  —  the  negro 
name  for  the  gray  squirrel.  Squirrels  are  sad 
thieves,  withal  very  dainty  feeders,  and  pos- 
sessed of  a  decided  sweet  tooth.  Needs  must 
they  keep  Lent  somewhat  rigorously,  living  on 
buds  and  bark  in  early  spring  when  their  nut 
hoards  are  exhausted,  but  after  the  Lenten 
buds  they  plunder  birds'-nests  impartially, 
suck  the  eggs  as  they  are  laid,  and  so  get 
through  to  the  time  of  mulberries  and  wild 
strawberries. 

They  love  mulberries  much  the  better  — 
perhaps  because  they  love  to  stay  in   trees  so 


IO4  Next  to  the  Ground 

much  better  than  to  run  along  the  ground. 
Sometimes  they  feed  upon  the  fallen  berries, 
but  commonly  they  do  their  own  picking, 
crawling  supplely  along  even  the  slenderest 
berry-bearing  twigs,  snatching  off  a  ripe  berry, 
and  backing  with  it  to  a  stouter  branch,  there 
to  sit  upright  and  devour  it.  Paws  and  muz- 
zles grow  deeply  dyed  with  the  purple  juice, 
as  a  little  later  they  may  be  browned  by  young 
walnut  hulls.  Walnut  hulls  are,  however,  so 
thick  and  full  of  acrid  juice,  squirrels  leave 
them  untouched  unless  hazelnuts  have  blasted, 
and  cornfields  are  very  far  off,  and  very  well 
guarded. 

Corn  in  the  milk  is  a  feast  to  them  —  hence 
the  necessity  of  shooting.  Were  the  woods 
allowed  to  fill  with  them,  they  would  destroy 
acres  of  corn  in  a  night.  They  run  up  the 
stalks,  cling  fast  to  a  roasting-ear,  deftly  strip 
off  half  the  husk,  and  gnaw  the  milky  grain, 
sucking  the  milk  as  it  drips.  Full-fed  they 
drop  down  and  run  away,  to  come  back  in  an 
hour  for  another  meal.  That  means  the 
spoiling  of  a  second  ear  —  they  do  not  feed 
twice  in  the  same  place  —  nor  will  one  squir- 
rel eat  the  nut  another  has  begun  to  gnaw, 
unless  he  has  snatched  it  and  run  off  with  it. 
Corn  is  eaten  from  the  time  the  grain  first 
swells  until  it  is  hard  —  hence  an  active 
squirrel  colony  prove  somewhat  expensive 


Shooting  105 

neighbors.  Major  Baker  and  Joe  did  not  in 
the  least  grudge  the  furry  fellows  the  berries, 
the  nuts,  nor  even  a  reasonable  share  of  corn, 
but  they  did  think  it  wise  to  keep  the  share 
from  becoming  unreasonable. 

Joe  and  Patsy  often  went  prospecting  for 
nuts  while  still  everything  was  green.  Thus 
it  happened  that  more  than  once  they  got  a 
chance  to  watch  the  squirrels  in  the  hazel 
bushes,  and  saw  them  creep  upon  the  long  slen- 
der nutted  boughs,  often  bending  them  almost 
to  the  ground,  reach  out  fore  paws,  draw  in  the 
pendant  green-frilled  nut-clusters,  gnaw  a  hole 
at  the  base  of  each  young  nut,  and  suck  out  the 
milky  kernel.  When  the  last  nut  was  empty, 
the  squirrel  dropped  down  on  the  ground,  and 
either  ran  up  another  stem,  seeking  new  clus- 
ters to  plunder,  or  scampered  away.  Unless 
he  was  frightened,  the  going  away  was  in 
little  niggling  leaps,  halting  between  every  two 
or  three  to  curl  the  long  gray  plume  of  tail 
up  along  the  back.  But  if  he  had  spied  out 
the  eyes  watching  him,  the  leaps  were  prodi- 
gious, six  feet  at  the  least,  and  ending  at  the 
foot  of  some  big  tree,  up  and  around  which 
the  leaper  whipped  in  the  twinkle  of  an  eye. 

Patsy  abused  the  squirrels  for  being  so 
lazy  —  their  summer  nests,  she  said,  were 
such  shackly  affairs,  of  sticks  and  leafy  twigs 
—  then  they  sometimes  made  shift  with  an 


io6  Next  to  the  Ground 

abandoned  crow's  nest,  or  even  a  hawk's. 
That  certainly  did  look  thriftless  —  still  there 
was  something  to  be  said  on  the  other  side. 
Commonly  Joe  said  it.  The  squirrels,  he 
told  Patsy,  knew  it  was  fun  to  camp  out  — 
their  leaf-and-stick  houses  were  no  more  than 
camps.  They  did  nothing  but  sleep  in  them, 
and  that  only  in  chilly  or  damp  weather. 
They  had  the  whole  summer  world  for  home 
and  playground.  Why  then  should  they  weary 
themselves  to  build  fine  houses  ?  They  were 
industrious  enough,  even  forehanded,  in  the 
fall.  They  did  not  wait  for  frost  to  open  the 
hickory-nut  hulls  and  the  chestnut  burs,  but 
gnawed  them  through  and  carried  the  nuts  to 
their  winter  nests,  beginning  as  soon  as  ever 
the  kernels  were  hard.  They  had  sense  as 
well  as  thrift  —  sense  enough  not  to  mix  in  bit- 
ter mast  with  their  sweet  stores,  but  foresight 
enough  to  know  they  might  come  to  need  the 
acorns.  And  so  they  buried  them,  down  be- 
side some  rememberable  tree,  and  left  them 
against  the  spring  scarcity.  He  was  not  quite 
sure  as  to  the  motive  of  the  burying.  He 
knew  the  bitter  acorns  got  sweet  as  they  be- 
gan to  sprout  —  not  a  very  tempting  sweet, 
and  with  still  a  rough  tang  under  it,  but  a 
sweet  the  squirrels  might  reasonably  prefer  to 
the  original  flavor.  Joe  had  tried  a  sprouting 
acorn  himself,  to  find  out  if  germination 


Shooting  107 

changed  the  taste  as  it  did  that  of  a  walnut. 
He  was  uncertain  as  to  whether  the  squirrels 
buried  them  with  intent  to  make  them  better 
eating,  or  whether  they  had  some  instinctive 
knowledge  of  forestry,  and  meant  thus  to  help 
in  assuring  the  perpetuation  of  the  oaks. 

Anyway,  in  winter  they  were  good  house- 
keepers, never  eating  in  the  nest  if  the 
weather  was  open,  but  running  off  with  their 
nut  ration  to  some  convenient  higher  sunny 
crotch,  whence  they  might  drop  the  hull  with- 
out betraying  the  nest.  And  if  bad  weather 
kept  them  inside,  making  them  eat  and  huddle 
there  for  maybe  a  week,  as  soon  as  it  cleared, 
they  fetched  out  the  accumulated  shells,  and 
instead  of  dropping  them  just  outside,  ran 
all  about  with  them  —  to  the  ends  of  the 
longest  branches  upon  the  home  tree,  or  even 
across  the  whole  breadth  of  a  neighboring 
one. 

If  they  did  not  make  visits,  they  were  social 
—  often  half  a  dozen  of  them  played  together, 
chasing  each  other  up  and  about  the  highest 
sunny  boughs.  Sometimes  the  play  was  hide- 
and-seek.  One  squirrel  popped  under  or 
around  a  big  limb,  out  of  sight  of  the  rest,  and 
clung  motionless  there  while  they  seemed  to 
search  for  him  everywhere. 

Joe  loved  to  watch  them  going  to  drink  at 
the  creek.  They  will  not  drink  muddy  water 


io8  Next  to  the  Ground 

if  there  is  fair  water  within  a  mile.  If  they 
came  through  the  tree  tops,  it  was  in  a  line 
almost  as  straight  as  a  bird's  flight.  More 
commonly  they  came  along  the  ground,  in 
running  leaps,  rising  upon  the  haunches  every 
little  while  to  throw  the  ears  back,  listen,  and 
look  around.  Sometimes  when  dew  was  heavy, 
a  squirrel  stopped  to  sip  beads  of  it  from  the 
edge  of  a  broad  leaf.  At  the  waterside  they 
did  not  sip,  but  drank  deep,  bending  far  out 
over  the  water,  with  tails  laid  flat  and  stiff 
on  the  ground  as  though  to  anchor  them. 
Because  of  this  fine  tail,  a  squirrel  is  a  very 
poor  swimmer.  Old  hunters  declare  that 
when  the  little  animals  migrate,  as  sometimes 
happens  through  the  failure  of  mast,  they  cross 
rivers  by  launching  upon  the  water,  sticks,  bits 
of  bark  and  chips,  to  which  they  cling,  keep- 
ing their  tails  above  water,  and  holding  them 
up  as  sails,  until  they  drift  across. 

Joe  and  Patsy  inclined  to  believe  the  story, 
although  they  had  never  seen  such  a  thing  hap- 
pen. But  they  had  seen  the  squirrels  do  other 
things  almost  as  wonderful  — as  for  example 
distinguishing  between  a  gun  and  a  fishing 
pole,  or  just  a  plain  stick.  Sometimes  when 
they  went  through  the  woods,  with  sticks  or 
fishing  poles,  the  squirrels  really  jeered  at 
them  from  low  boughs,  barking  their  loudest, 
and  even  flinging  down  acorn  hulls  on  their 


Shooting 


109 


heads.  The  bark  is  grating,  long-drawn  and 
full  of  z-sounds.  Between  themselves,  the 
gray-coats  chirrup  faintly,  but  if  they  make  a 
noise  over  sighting  an  enemy,  it  is  always  a 
bark. 

But  when  Joe  had  his  gun,  the  gray-coats 
whisked  away,  running  up  very  high,  or  else 
lying  so  flat  upon  top  of  a  stout  branch  as  to 
be  invisible.  Joe  had  a  good  squirrel  gun, 
long  before  the  epoch  of  the  breech-loader. 
It  had  been  reckoned  a  fine  weapon  when  his 
father  was  a  lad  —  a  long,  light  double-barrel, 
too  long  for  bird-shooting,  but  carrying 
almost  as  straight  as  a  rifle  up  to  thirty  yards. 
If  the  squirrel  ran  around  the  tree,  it  was 
always  Patsy's  privilege  to  "  turn  "  him.  She 
left  Joe  standing  stock-still,  finger  on  trigger, 
and  went  noisily  to  the  opposite  side,  shook 
bushes  there,  or  swung  up  and  down  upon  the 
tip  of  a  low  hung  bough,  or  a  loop  of  grape- 
vine. Her  aim  was  to  be  heard,  not  seen  — 
when  the  squirrel  heard  her,  he  popped  cun- 
ningly back  — then  Joe  and  the  double-barrel 
settled  accounts  with  him. 

Patsy  could  shoot,  but  she  did  not  care  for 
a  gun.  "You  always  have  to  watch  out,  if 
you  tote  a  gun,"  she  said ;  "  I  had  a  heap 
rather  see  things."  Nobody  who  walked 
through  the  autumn  woods  could  well  blame 
her.  The  whole  world  was  enchanted  then. 


no  Next  to  the  Ground 

Along  the  creek,  beeches,  maples,  ash  trees, 
scaly-barks,  and  sycamores  ran  the  whole 
scale  of  yellows  from  pale  gold  to  sturdy  russet. 
Rock-maples  were  blood-red,  dogwoods  of  a 
dull  purplish  crimson,  flecked  and  blotched  all 
over  with  stars  of  coral-red  berries.  Black- 
gums  had  leaves  of  clear  crimson  set  off  by 
sprinkles  of  frosted  blue-black  fruit.  The 
whole  haw  family  had  crumpled  their  leaves 
until  the  stalks  showed  through,  but  there  was 
no  room  for  complaint  of  bareness  —  the  haws 
were  so  thick.  Only  a  few  of  the  black  haws 
ripened  before  frost.  The  ripe  ones  had  a 
rich  blue  bloom,  and  set  off  wonderfully  the 
piebald  unripe  ones  round  about,  where  black 
spots  struggled  to  overcome  their  pinkish 
cream. 

Some  of  the  red  haws  were  like  fairy  apples, 
as  big  as  the  end  of  the  thumb,  and  set  singly 
at  the  ends  of  the  twigs.  But  more  of  them 
grew  in  clusters  of  two  or  three  or  five.  They 
were  smaller  a  good  deal  than  the  single  ones, 
but  like  them  a  sweetish-sour,  and  so  full 
of  seed  they  were  not  worth  eating.  Still 
they  were  worth  while  —  they  jewelled  the 
trees  so  royally,  glowing  ruby-red  in  sunshine 
against  the  sober  tangle  of  leaves  and  stems 
and  thorns.  But  they  were  not  quite  so 
much  like  jewels,  nor  anything  like  so  good, 
as  the  little  red  haws  which  grew  in  clusters, 


Shooting  in 

like  currants,  and  had  just  a  tiny  seed  in  the 
middle  of  their  sweet  pulp. 

But  for  beauty,  no  haw  that  ever  bloomed 
can  compare  with  spicewood  berries,  or  those 
of  the  strawberry  bush.  Both  are  waterside 
growths,  somewhat  uncanny,  and  super- 
stitiously  held  to  possess  magic  properties. 
The  strawberry  bush  sometimes  grows  to 
be  a  small  tree.  Spicewood  is  always  a 
shrub.  The  leaves  of  it  are  coarse,  both 
in  shape  and  fiber  —  so  coarse  they  seem  ex- 
crescences upon  the  slender,  graceful  twigs, 
so  round,  smooth,  and  brown,  with  tiny 
white  freckles  all  over  the  brown.  There 
is  no  smell  to  either  bloom  or  leaf,  but  the 
wood  itself  is  delicately  fragrant.  It  is  a 
subtle  scent,  hinting  of  sandalwood,  and  cam- 
phor and  sassafras.  The  blossoms,  which  are 
yellow  and  fringed  like  knops  of  spun  sun- 
shine, are  stemless  and  come  out  early,  before 
the  leaf-buds  start,  slipping  out  at  the  joints  of 
last  year's  twigs.  About  one  in  three  comes 
to  fruit.  The  leaves  fall  early  though  they 
are  so  laggard  in  coming  out.  Any  time  after 
September  the  spicewood  thicket  stands  a 
netted  blur  of  clean  brown  tensile  stems,  be- 
set or  rather  inlaid  with  translucent  fairy  ovals 
of  clear  royal  scarlet. 

It  is  bad  luck  to  break  the  spicewood  in 
blossom,  but  whipping  the  water  with  a  branch 


H2  Next  to  the  Ground 

full  of  berries  gives  you  excellent  good  luck 
in  catching  fish.  At  least  old  man  Shack  said 
so  —  the  old  man  was  a  welling  fountain  of 
signs  and  superstitions.  It  is  likely  the  poor 
whites  have  a  gypsy  strain  somewhere  in  their 
pedigree.  They  are  nearly  as  clannish  as 
gypsies  —  which  in  part  accounts  for  their 
evolution  from  the  rags  and  tatters  of  early 
immigration.  The  old  man  said  he  could  find 
water  underground  by  the  dipping  of  a  forked 
hazel  or  willow  twig  held  in  both  hands.  He 
said  also  if  he  dared  cut  a  forked  twig  of 
strawberry  bush  and  walk  with  it,  he  could 
find  hidden  treasure,  all  round  about.  But 
he  was  afraid  to  try  it  —  unless  the  twig  was 
cut  by  a  left-handed  man  when  the  moon 
and  the  sign  both  were  just  right,  though 
the  rod  would  find  right  enough,  the  one 
who  carried  it  to  its  finding  would  die  inside 
half  a  year. 

Spice  wood  and  the  strawberry  bush  have 
only  beauty  in  common.  Strawberry  bush 
twigs  are  green;  the  stem,  when  it  reaches 
tree  size,  is  a  soft  pale-russet.  It  grows  very 
straight,  branches  almost  at  right  angles,  and 
has  the  primmest  of  oval  leaves  coming  out 
in  exact  pairs.  The  leaves  turn  a  mottled 
greenish  brown  before  the  berries  ripen.  The 
berries  proper  are  small  and  shining.  They 
hang  like  coral  drops  at  the  ends  of  short 


Shooting  113 

white  filaments.  Sometimes  there  is  but  one 
in  a  place,  sometimes  half  a  dozen.  But 
they  do  not  make  the  glory  of  the  tree. 
Where  the  filaments  start,  there  are  broad 
waxen  bracts,  of  the  richest  coral-pink,  curved 
and  voluted  like  the  petals  of  a  flower.  They 
grow  so  lavishly  too.  Every  little  smooth 
green  twig-end  wears  its  flittering  pink  and 
scarlet.  One  might  fancy  the  shrub,  out  of 
love  with  May,  had  flouted  that  month  with 
small  greeny-white  inconspicuous  blossoms, 
and  saved  strength  and  beauty  to  do  more 
than  blossom  against  St.  Martin's  summer. 

Maples  throw  down  their  winged  seed  long 
before  leaf-fall  —  thus  giving  them  a  better 
chance  to  grow.  The  ash  tree  has  the  same 
habit.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  seed 
is  shaped  like  a  fairy  oar,  since  ashen  blades 
are  the  things  for  rowing.  Sassafras  keeps  its 
pungent  bright  black  berries  until  all  the  leaves 
are  down,  although,  as  in  the  case  of  the  per- 
simmon, the  keeping  varies  according  to  sit- 
uation, and  somewhat  according  to  variety. 
The  books  may  not  recognize  the  fact,  but 
there  are  many  varieties  of  sassafras  —  as  in- 
deed there  must  be  of  every  seed-grown  tree. 

Joe  laughed  at  the  thought  of  Captain  John 
Smith  sailing  home  to  England  with  cargoes 
of  sassafras  root  in  the  hold  of  every  ship. 
Still  he  loved  the  smell  of  sassafras,  root  and 


H4  Next  to  the  Ground 

branch,  especially  when  burning.  Sassafras- 
root  bark  was  good  to  eat,  if  you  did  not  try 
to  eat  too  much  of  it,  full  of  a  burning  aromatic 
bitter,  wonderfully  staying  to  the  stomach  when 
you  were  cold  and  hungry.  Now  and  again 
also  he  chewed  the  budded  tips  of  the  stalks. 
When  the  buds  had  swelled  to  very  young 
leaves,  he  sometimes  ate  the  leaves  outright. 
He  always  gathered  handfuls  of  them  for  his 
mother  to  dry.  Dried  they  were  good  to  put 
in  winter  soup,  though  not  quite  so  good  as 
the  fresh  tips  which  flavored  gumbo  in  sum- 
mer. It  had  to  be  the  merest  flavor  —  if  it 
amounted  to  a  taste,  the  gumbo  was  spoiled. 
It  was  spoiled  anyway  if  the  tips  had  turned 
green  before  they  were  broken.  The  time  to 
gather  them  was  while  they  were  brownish 
red,  and  so  tender  a  touch  bruised  them. 

Sassafras  is  aromatic  all  through  —  wood, 
bark,  leaves  and  fruit.  It  rarely  grows  into  a 
big  tree,  no  matter  how  rich  the  soil.  A  trunk 
three  feet  through  is  almost  phenomenal.  It 
cannot  fight  shade,  so  does  not  dispute  ground 
with  forest  trees.  Around  the  edges  of  a  rich 
low-lying  open  glade,  it  often  grows  very  tall, 
running  up  maybe  fifty  feet,  with  trunks  a  foot 
through.  The  sunny  edge  of  a  clearing  is 
indeed  its  favorite  seat.  In  the  fall  when  the 
leaves  are  all  of  the  richest  golden-yellow,  you 
may  look  along  field  margins,  and  judge  fairly 


Shooting  1 1 5 

how  long  they  have  been  cleared,  by  the  height 
and  strength  of  the  sassafras  torches  flaming 
in  the  woodland  wall. 

There  are  wonderful  differences  in  fallen 
leaves.  Joe  did  not  know  whether  it  were  cause 
or  effect  —  the  earth  along  the  creek,  and  in 
the  hickory  flats  upland,  being  so  much  lighter, 
blacker,  and  livelier  than  the  soil  of  the  flat- 
woods.  But  he  knew  the  leaves  from  the  nut 
trees,  the  ashes,  and  maples,  crisped  and  lay 
much  lighter  and  higher  than  those  of  the  oaks. 
The  hickory  flats  late  in  October  looked  as 
though  they  had  been  shaped  of  sunshine  and 
beaten  gold.  Tall  blackish-gray  trunks  ran 
up  slim  and  straight  to  lose  themselves  in  clouds 
of  gold  foil.  They  had  few  boughs  below  the 
top  —  there  the  branches  were  thick  enough 
and  leafy  enough  to  spare  a  carpet  for  the  earth 
yet  still  ruffle  it  grandly  in  cloth  of  gold.  The 
carpet  lay  knee-deep,  richly  rustling,  and  upon 
damp  mornings  or  in  the  heat  of  noon,  gave 
out  a  fine  elusive  breath  too  subtle  to  be  called 
perfume. 

It  was  a  delight  to  roll  on  the  carpet  or  bur- 
row beneath  it  for  nuts.  The  leaves  felt  so 
clean  and  springy  until  rains  had  beaten  them 
down.  They  packed  easily,  and  took  but  a 
winter  to  dissolve  into  their  original  elements 
and  become  leaf-mold.  Oak  leaves  did  not 
crisp  —  they  scarcely  even  drew  in  their  edges. 


1 1 6  Next  to  the  Ground 

Hence  they  fell  and  lay  flat  one  upon  another, 
shingling  the  earth  as  it  were,  and  shedding 
rain  for  hours.  You  might  find  dry  ones  at 
the  bottom  of  a  deep  drift  after  an  all-day 
rain.  Beyond  that  they  were  of  much  stouter 
fiber.  The  yellow  leaves  crisped  and  crumbled 
to  powder  in  a  month  if  they  stayed  dry.  Oak 
leaves  varnished  all  over  never  crumbled,  and 
took  three  years  to  rot,  unless  they  were 
packed  wet  and  covered.  Joe  wondered  some- 
times if  the  oaks  did  not  grudge  the  light  ground 
to  the  trees  of  better  fruit,  or  if  they  were 
content  to  rest  on  use. 

He  wondered  too  how  the  ash,  which  is  so 
great  a  robber  of  the  soil,  ever  came  to  be 
known  as  the  farmer's  tree.  To  his  thinking 
it  was  rather  the  lumberman's  tree,  for,  though 
it  did  not  grow  so  big  as  some  of  the  rest,  the 
wood  was  so  tough  and  springy  it  was  fit  for 
many  special  uses.  His  mother  had,  he  knew, 
insisted  upon  having  ashen  floors  all  through 
the  new  wing  to  match  the  rest  of  the  house. 
In  summer  the  floors  were  all  bare  and  the  ash 
showed  a  clean  beautiful  grain  after  the  weekly 
scrubbing.  Then  it  split  so  straight  and  freely 
it  was  fine  for  plantation  carpentry- —  making 
a  hoe-handle,  or  replacing  one  accidentally 
broken  upon  a  plough.  Still  he  did  not  like 
the  tree,  as  he  did  some  of  the  rest.  It  might 
be  only  fancy  or  coincidence,  but  he  was  cer- 


Shooting  117 

tain  in  his  own  mind  he  never  had  any  luck 
fishing  if  he  chanced  to  wet  his  line  first  where 
ash  roots  ran  into  the  water. 

The  oaks,  and  even  the  flat-woods,  had  a 
charm  all  their  own.  Things  grew  in  the 
flat-woods  not  to  be  found  anywhere  else. 
Holly-bushes  for  example,  not  plentifully,  but 
enough  of  them  to  make  looking  for  them  hope- 
ful work.  Holly, according  to  tradition,  sprang 
upfirstin  the  footprints  of  our  Saviour  —  hence 
the  beasts  of  the  field  reverence  it  and  never 
feed  on  it.  Hence  too  its  use  at  Christmas. 
Everybody  knows  it  is  bad  luck  to  take  down 
Christmas  holly  before  Old  Christmas  Day, 
otherwise  Twelfth  Night.  Joe  had  read  in 
his  forest  books  how  complaints  in  the  swain- 
mote,  the  forest  court,  were  sworn  to,  upon  a 
holly  wand,  instead  of  a  Bible.  Dan  had  told 
him  further  weird  tales  of  the  holly's  power : 
—  how  if  you  walked  under  it  after  dark,  you 
would  tc  dream  true  "  —  and  in  general  dream 
very  ill  —  and  what  dangers  waited  upon  dig- 
ging it  up,  or  even  around  it.  As  for  cutting 
one  down  —  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  if 
you  did  not  care  to  be  conjured  for  life.  And 
when  you  went  hollying  for  Christmas,  some- 
thing bad  would  surely  happen  to  you,  if  you 
failed  to  bow  and  say  "  Thank  you  "  to  each 
tree  you  plundered. 

Indian  pipe  also  grew  in  the  oak  woods  — 


1 1 8  Next  to  the  Ground 

so  did  Indian  turnip,  which  the  black  people 
call  u  devil-in-a-pulpit."  Patsy  bore  a  con- 
science toward  most  wild  flowers  —  she  did 
not  care  to  pick  them  only  to  see  them  wither 
in  her  hand,  but  the  Indian  pipe  tempted  her. 
She  did  not  break  the  uncanny  wax-white 
things,  but  lifted  them  bodily  with  a  ball  of 
earth  underneath,  took  them  home,  and  set 
them  in  a  platter,  with  moss  all  around,  and 
yellow  leaves  and  gay  red  berries  flecking  the 
green  of  it.  She  chose  the  Indian  turnip's 
glowing  cones  oftener  than  any  other.  They 
were  not  the  prettiest,  she  said  —  indeed,  the 
big  huddled  lump  of  them  was  sometimes 
awkward,  but  they  held  color  so  well,  glowing 
for  weeks  as  they  lay  on  the  ground  after  the 
stalk  had  faded.  More  than  that,  nothing  ever 
fed  on  them.  Patsy  did  not  taste  them  • —  she 
had  promised  her  mother  never  to  taste  any 
of  the  wild  things  she  picked  —  but  she  fancied 
the  berries  might  be  as  pungent  and  peppery 
as  the  root,  which  blisters  the  mouth  and 
puckers  it  in  spite  of  all  you  can  do. 

Sometimes  with  delicate  caution  she  shook 
ofF  the  earth  and  tried  to  see  roots  to  the  Indian 
pipe.  If  there  were  roots  they  were  invisible 
or  else  suckers  at  the  base  of  the  stems.  Patsy 
made  up  her  mind  that  the  plant  was  an  un- 
derground parasite,  feeding  upon  oak  roots,  as 
mistletoe. feeds  upon  the  branches.  This  was 


Shooting  119 

because  she  never  found  it  except  underneath 
a  robust  oak,  pushing  up  through  matted  leaves 
and  seeming  to  be  anchored  to  a  feeding  oak 
root  two  or  three  inches  below  ground.  Un- 
canny as  it  was,  she  loved  it,  almost  better  than 
the  real  sweet-smelling  flowers, —  loved  to 
watch  the  white  stalks  push  up,  the.  fairy  pipe 
shape  itself  at  the  end  of  them,  unfold,  and 
gradually  bend  down,  down,  so  rain  might  not 
wash  away  its  pollen  and  make  it  unfruitful. 
When  every  stalk  had  blossomed — sometimes 
there  were  a  dozen  —  the  clump  died,  pipes  as 
well  as  stems  withering  to  dust.  But  Patsy 
knew  there  was  seed  somewhere  in  the  dust. 
She  could  not  see  it,  of  course  —  but  if  there 
was  not,  how  should  there  be  Indian  pipes 
next  year,  and  all  the  years? 


Quail  and  Partridge 


Chapter    VI 


F  Joe  had  been  called  to 
choose  the  real  merry  month, 
he  would  have  pitched  upon 
November,  yet  not  wholly 
because  of  the  hunting. 
October  brought  the  tragedy 
of  frost  —  it  was  pitiful  to 
see  all  the  green  things  die, 
even  if  the  frost  did  paint  the  leaves  so  roy- 
ally and  bring  so  many  things  to  full  ripeness. 
Maybe  he  was  fanciful,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
the  earth  shrank  from  the  frost,  and  grew 
pinched  in  the  first  cold,  as  he  himself  shrank 
and  grew  pinched.  When  three  nights  of 
frost  had  ushered  in  a  warm  rainy  week,  he 
thought  the  fields  rejoiced  and  when  the  clouds 
broke  up  into  low  clinging  mists,  he  was  sure 
the  trees  sang  together  a  low  jubilant  song. 

They  ruffled  lightly  as  they  sang  —  thus 
there  was  a  plashing  accompaniment  —  the 
noise  of  the  big  mist  drops  pattering  down. 


124  Next  to  the  Ground 

The  mist  drops  are  clear  as  dew,  and  heavier 
than  rain.  They  distil  from  the  woolly  white- 
ness, gathering  all  along  boughs  and  branches. 
Sometimes  just  after  sunrise  a  quick  wind  rolls 
away  the  white  wool,  and  then  you  see  the 
trees  diamonded  all  over,  flashing  back  the  low 
red  shining.  It  is  a  royal  spectacle,  especially 
if  you  chance  to  look  at  the  sun  through  the 
bediamonded  boughs,  and  thus  have  the  red 
shining  turned  into  a  flood  of  rainbows.  The 
big  drops  act  as  prisms  to  bring  out  the  pri- 
mary colors. 

It  took  a  warm  stealing  south  wind  thus 
to  roll  back  the  mists.  A  cold  westerly  or 
northerly  breeze  blew  them  up  into  the  sky, 
and  shaped  them  into  flying  rain-scud.  If  the 
winds  did  the  work  quick  enough  there  was 
a  shower,  and  a  morning  rainbow  in  the  sky. 
Of  rainbows  at  morning  all  good  husbandmen, 
especially  shepherds,  take  warning,  since  they 
are  infallible  signs  of  foul  weather.  Falling 
weather,  say  the  country  folk.  Scientific  ones 
might  say  almost  the  same,  since  it  is  the  fall- 
ing barometer  which  gives  notice  of  coming 
disturbances. 

When  Joe  went  out  bird-hunting  he  had 
no  need  of  either  rainbows  or  barometer  to  tell 
him  what  weather  impended.  Birds  for  hunt- 
ing in  Tennessee  are  quail,  there  called  par- 
tridge, as  the  true  partridge  is  known  as  pheas- 


§>uail  and  Partridge  125 

ant.  Pheasants  were  rare  round  about  White 
Oaks.  Joe  had  seen  just  four  of  them.  He 
wished  they  were  plentier.  Two  of  those  he 
had  seen  were  in  a  game-bag,  but  the  others 
he  had  watched,  strutting  and  drumming  upon 
a  log  in  the  woods,  and  at  last,  flinging  furiously 
at  each  other,  fighting  as  desperately  as  game- 
cocks, and  in  much  the  same  fashion.  They 
were  cock-birds.  His  father  had  said  their 
mates  must  have  been  looking  on,  concealed 
in  the  brush  a  little  way  off.  Major  Baker 
had  in  his  boyhood  often  watched  such  encoun- 
ters. Then  there  were  pheasants  in  every  deep 
and  wide  stretch  of  woodland.  It  was  the  clear- 
ing, more  than  hunting,  that  had  made  them  so 
few  and  shy.  They  feed  and  breed,  and  haunt 
in  remote  thickets,  virgin  of  human  footsteps, 
and,  though  hatched  in  broods,  do  not  keep  to- 
gether much  after  they  are  half-grown.  The 
broods  are  very  much  smaller  than  those  of 
quail,  rarely  more  than  nine,  and  commonly 
under  seven.  The  nest  is  a  hollow  in  the 
ground,  under  thick  thorny  cover.  The  young 
run  swiftly  as  soon  as  hatched,  and  can  dis- 
appear in  the  very  lightest  cover,  their  little 
gray-brown  downy  bodies  never  showingagainst 
leafy  earth.  At  a  week  old  they  have  wing 
feathers  strong  enough  to  help  them  to  a  perch 
amid  low  bushes.  The  mother  bird  takes 
them  there,  and  goes  higher  and  higher  as  they 


126  Next  to  the  Ground 

grow  older.  Thus  she  puts  them  out  of  reach 
of  foxes,  though  she  brings  them  within  the 
range  of  owls.  Still,  as  she  is  wise  enough  to 
roost  for  the  most  part  in  viny  tangles,  the 
owls  carry  off  but  few.  Owls  must  strike 
flying  to  strike  with  effect. 

A  cock-pheasant  drumming  is  a  figure  of 
pride.  How  he  drums  nobody  quite  under- 
stands. He  can  make  the  sound  standing  on 
the  ground,  though  he  commonly  stands  upon 
a  fallen  tree,  and  prefers  to  drum  on  a  trunk 
bare  of  bark.  He  spreads  his  tail  fan-wise, 
after  the  manner  of  a  peacock,  raises  his  ruff 
stiffly  behind  and  around  his  head,  lets  his 
wings  drop,  and  struts,  swelling  his  breast, 
preening,  stretching  his  neck,  and  looking 
upon  every  side.  You  can  hear  the  tips  of 
the  wing-quills  draw  hard  against  the  tree 
trunk,  as  the  bird  wheels  slowly  about.  He 
seems  to  listen  intently.  All  at  once  the 
wings  begin  to  move,  so  swiftly  the  eye  can- 
not follow  them.  They  do  not  seem  to  strike 
either  the  bird's  body  or  the  log  underneath, 
yet  all  about  there  sounds  a  curious  vibrant 
drumming,  almost  metallic,  as  loud  many 
yards  off  as  close  at  hand.  After  a  minute  it 
stops  short,  to  begin  again  and  continue  longer. 
Between  drummings  the  drummer  walks  back 
and  forth  with  his  head  aside,  listening  toward 
every  point  of  the  compass. 


Quail  and  Partridge  127 

When  Joe  chanced  upon  his  pheasants  only 
one  was  in  sight  and  drumming.  The  log 
was  a  big  white-oak,  wind-felled  across  a  little 
glade  walled  in  with  hazel  bushes.  Joe 
was  herb-gathering  —  looking,  in  fact,  for 
yellow  puccoon  root.  It  was  early  March  and 
he  knew  the  plant  had  not  peeped  above 
ground,  except  in  the  richest,  most  sheltered, 
woodsy  places.  He  had  left  his  gun  out  at 
the  edge  of  the  hazel  thicket,  and  was  crawl- 
ing through  it  upon  hands  and  knees,  or  he 
would  never  have  got  within  eye-shot  of  the 
feathered  gladiators.  Pheasants  are  the  wari- 
est of  all  game  birds,  running  at  the  crackling 
of  a  dead  twig,  and  flying  upon  the  least  stir. 
Negroes  believe  that  they  can  also  smell 
human  beings.  Notwithstanding,  there  are 
traditions  of  battling  birds  seized  with  the  bare 
hands. 

Joe  had  no  such  luck,  though  he  waited 
breathlessly  the  event  of  the  duel.  He  knew 
almost  at  once  it  was  to  be  a  duel  —  he  did 
not  hear  answering  drumming,  but  saw  the 
pheasant  on  the  white-oak  log  swell  till  his 
breast  was  almost  on  top,  and  his  ruffed  neck 
lay  upon  his  back.  The  bird  had  heard 
something  too  fine  for  the  boy's  ear.  He 
was  not  surprised  when  the  second  bird 
whirred  out  of  the  woods,  like  a  cannon  ball, 
half-circled  as  he  flew,  and  settled  upon  the 


128  Next  to  the  Ground 

log  five  feet  from  the  drummer.  The  two 
eyed  each  other  for  perhaps  a  minute,  then 
both  began  to  drum  at  once.  Still  drumming 
they  moved  toward  each  other.  When  they 
were  two  feet  apart,  the  wings  grew  rigid,  and 
they  hurled  themselves  furiously  against  each 
other.  The  shock  of  impact  sent  them  down 
upon  the  leaves,  there  to  tumble  about  peck- 
ing, clawing,  striking  with  the  wings,  each 
aiming  to  reach  his  adversary's  eyes.  Joe 
knew  that,  because  both  the  dead  birds  he  had 
seen  had  lost  an  eye.  He  had  heard  old  hun- 
ters tell  also,  of  finding  pheasants  wholly 
blind,  starving  in  the  thickets.  He  did  not 
mean  that  should  be  the  fate  of  these  fine 
fellows,  so  he  rushed  in  upon  them  and  sent 
them  scuttering  away,  before  much  harm  was 
done.  He  wondered  if  they  would  not  meet 
again,  and  fight  it  out,  with  their  sultanas  look- 
ing on.  From  what  he  had  heard,  the  sultanas, 
the  hen-pheasants,  were  cruel  creatures,  de- 
lighting to  be  the  cause  of  battle,  and  though 
indifferent  to  the  victor,  vengeful  even  to  death 
upon  the  vanquished  if  he  ventured  later  to 
creep  back  into  company.  They  were  jeal- 
ous too,  often  fighting  among  themselves, 
until  their  brown  coats  were  ragged,  and  their 
sultan  came  magisterially  to  peck  and  cuff" 
them  apart.  But  there  was  something  to  be 
said  for  them,  he  reflected  —  they  had  the  sole 


Quail  and  Partridge  129 

care  of  the  eggs,  and  the  young  broods.  As 
soon  as  the  eggs  were  laid,  the  cocks  with- 
drew, generally  keeping  alone,  but  sometimes 
companying  in  twos  or  threes.  All  through 
the  pleasant  fall  weather,  as  became  bachelors 
of  consequence,  they  fed  high,  on  grapes,  and 
wild  peas,  and  hazel  nuts,  and  the  smaller 
acorns.  Though  the  first  snow  did  not 
gather  them  into  flocks,  with  their  deserted 
families,  it  did  make  them  feed  and  range  in 
fairly  close  neighborhood. 

Thus  they  were  not  a  bit  like  his  weather- 
wise  friends,  the  partridges,  who  are  easily 
the  most  clannish  of  all  the  fowls  of  the  air. 
Joe  made  a  point  of  knowing  where  every 
partridge  nest  was  —  also  of  seeing  that  it 
came  to  no  harm.  If  it  happened  to  be  in  a 
wheat  field,  the  binder  drove  around,  not  over 
it,  even  though  going  around  left  a  yard  of 
standing  grain.  A  sitting  partridge  would 
stick  to  her  eggs,  and  let  the  machine  cut  her 
head  off.  One  merely  laying  would  fly  off 
and  of  course  desert  the  nest  left  bare  to  the 
broiling  sun.  The  harvest  hands  made  that 
their  excuse  for  plundering  the  nests.  A 
partridge  egg  is  one  of  the  daintiest  morsels 
in  the  world.  It  is  pure  white,  of  a  very 
sharp  oval,  with  a  strong  shell,  but  so  delicate 
the  light  shines  faintly  through  as  the  eggs 
lie  huddled  in  the  nest.  When  the  nest  is 


130  Next  to  the  Ground 

ready  for  brooding  there  may  be  from  ten  to 
fifty  eggs  in  it.  Bob  White  is  a  rank  Mor- 
mon. He  is  never  content  with  less  than 
two  wives,  and  oftener  has  three.  The  wives 
lay  in  the  same  nest,  and  take  turns  with 
their  common  lord  in  brooding  the  eggs,  also 
in  feeding  and  carrying  the  young  after  they 
are  hatched. 

Grass  or  standing  small  grain  is  the  favor- 
ite nest-cover,  though  Bob  White  often  builds 
in  a  blackberry  thicket,  or  a  clean  hedgerow. 
A  hedge  overrun  with  poison  ivy  or  with  bind- 
weed he  will  have  none  of.  Neither  will  he 
choose  one  full  of  rank  herbaceous  growth. 
Whatever  the  seat,  the  nest  itself  is  no  more 
than  a  shallow  basin  scratched  in  the  light 
earth.  There  is  no  pretence  of  lining  it.  In- 
deed the  only  attempt  at  architecture  is  the 
bending  down  of  green  stalks  to  overarch  it 
and  form  a  little  tunnel  leading  in  to  it.  The 
tunnel  is  faintly  curved.  A  nest  disturbed  ever 
so  slightly  when  there  are  but  two  or  three 
eggs  in  it  will  be  at  once  forsaken ;  but  if  it 
is  full  to  overflowing,  the  birds  keep  to  it, 
though  people  may  pass  within  a  yard  of  it 
every  day.  On  the  whole,  Bob  White  is  not 
averse  to  human  kind.  Partridge  eggs  are 
sometimes  laid  in  the  nests  of  domestic  fowls, 
especially  guinea  fowls,  which  are  as  prone 
as  themselves  to  nesting  in  the  fields. 


Quail  and  Partridge  131 

Young  partridges  look  like  brown  downy 
chickens  seen  through  the  small  end  of  a 
spyglass.  They  are  hardly  bigger  than  your 
thumb,  but  can  run  fast  before  their  down  is 
dry.  They  make  the  faintest  little  chittering 
noises,  and  are  wonderfully  obedient.  At  their 
mother's  lightest  note  of  warning,  they  vanish. 
Like  the  young  pheasants,  they  are  helped  by 
their  color.  Indeed,  this  is  true  of  all  earth- 
nesting  birds.  Their  young  can  with  diffi- 
culty be  distinguished  from  the  ground. 

A  brood  of  pheasants  makes  a  bevy,  a  brood 
of  partridges  (quail)  a  covey.  The  covey 
feeds,  and  haunts,  and  plays  together  until  the 
next  mating  time.  It  also  comes  home  to 
roost —  seldom  sleeping  more  than  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  nest  it  was  hatched  in.  The 
roosting  is  upon  the  ground,  huddled  as  close 
as  possible  in  a  perfect  ring,  heads  out,  tails 
in.  Thus  they  guard  against  surprise,  or  the 
back-seizure  which  is  the  fox's  chosen  method 
of  attack.  They  are  very  light  sleepers,  stir- 
ring at  the  least  noise,  and  uttering  a  little 
shrill  cry.  At  sound  of  it  the  covey  scatters, 
and  lies  snug  after  running  perhaps  fifty  yards. 
Nature  has  given  them  in  protection  power 
to  withhold  their  scent  when  thus  frightened.1 

1  The  power  of  withholding  scent  is  a  mooted  point } 
but  experience  in  the  hunting  field  convinces  the  writer 
of  its  existence. 


Next  to  the  Ground 

Sportsmen  do  not  know  whether  to  be  grate- 
ful or  grieved  over  the  gift.  Though  it  un- 
questionably helps  to  make  partridges  plenty, 
it  also  helps  to  make  the  truest-nosed  dogs  do 
oftentimes  very  faulty  work. 

When  the  danger  has  passed,  the  covey  be- 
gins calling,  faint,  shrill,  plaintive,  no  matter 
what  the  hour  of  night.  It  is  the  same  call, 
only  not  so  loud,  as  that  which  assembles  the 
remnant  of  a  covey  scattered  by  a  day's  shoot- 
ing. You  hear  it  then,  just  at  dusk.  Birds 
thoroughly  frightened  keep  silent  until  the 
whole  world  is  still.  However  uttered,  the 
assembly  call  bring  the  birds  together.  If 
there  are  even  half  a  dozen  left  of  them,  they 
keep  together,  but  if  only  two  or  three,  they 
at  once  join  themselves  to  a  covey  still  strong. 
There  is  no  recognized  leader,  yet  in  feeding, 
the  formation  is  somewhat  that  of  wild  geese 
in  flight.  Running,  the  covey  moves  in  a 
long  slant  following  the  head  bird,  very  much 
as  sheep  follow  the  bell.  Their  short,  stiff 
pinions  are  very  strong  —  strong  enough  for 
half-mile  flights.  Still  the  birds  can  run  eas- 
ier than  they  can  fly,  and  very  nearly  as  fast. 

In  wet  weather  they  will  not  fly,  if  running 
is  possible.  Hence  netting.  The  partridge 
net  is  a  purse-net,  with  little  hoops  inside  to 
hold  it  open,  and  long  wings  upheld  by  light 
wooden  sticks.  The  whole  affair  is  dyed  the 


Quail  and  Partridge  133 

color  of  frosted  weeds.  It  is  set  among  frosted 
weeds,  where  partridges  are  known  to  use, 
and  commonly  upon  a  day  of  mist  mingled 
with  rain.  After  it  is  set,  with  a  light  screen 
of  brush  over  the  mouth,  the  netters  ride  up 
and  down  the  field  diagonally,  coming  gradu- 
ally closer  and  closer  to  the  net  mouth.  The 
partridges  see  only  the  trampling  hoofs,  and 
run  gently  a  little  further  off.  They  run  again 
and  yet  again,  until  at  last  they  come  to  an 
odd  light  wall.  It  is  a  wing  of  the  net.  They 
run  down  it,  see  the  convenient  cover  of 
bushes,  scuttle  through  it,  and  run  on  —  to 
find  themselves  trapped  a  little  further  in. 

Netted  birds  are  much  the  best  for  either 
the  table  or  the  market,  but  anybody  with  a 
drop  of  sportsman's  blood,  holds  netting  in 
abhorrence.  Some  few  who  practise  it  salve 
their  consciences  by  turning  out  two  pairs 
of  each  covey  netted.  Neither  nets  nor  coops 
were  permitted  at  White  Oaks.  Joe  had  built 
a  coop  once  when  he  was  ten  years  old  — 
a  three  cornered  tobacco-stick  coop,  with  a 
weighted  roof  of  boards,  and  a  tunnel  running 
down  under  the  side  of  it,  to  come  up  in  the 
floor.  He  had  baited  it  liberally  with  wheat 
and  dried  peas,  strewing  the  bait  all  along  the 
tunnel,  and  in  a  trail  for  yards  outside.  A 
covey  found  the  trail,  fed  through  the  tunnel, 
and  got  inside  the  coop,  then  lacked  the  wit 


Next  to  the  Ground 

to  go  back  the  way  they  had  come.  Instead 
they  ran  round  and  round,  sticking  their  heads 
through  the  cracks,  and  trying  vainly  to  make 
their  bodies  follow  the  heads,  until  Joe  came 
to  see  about  them. 

Patsy  came  too.  Joe  took  out  his  captives 
one  by  one,  very  carefully  so  as  not  to  hurt 
them  in  the  least.  He  meant  to  tame  them, 
and  see  if  he  could  not  raise  whole  flocks  from 
them.  He  passed  them  over  to  Patsy,  charging 
her  strictly  to  be  also  careful.  He  was  on  his 
knees  beside  the  coop.  She  stood  right  be- 
hind him.  When  he  got  up,  with  the  last 
bird  in  his  hand,  her  hands  were  empty.  Patsy 
was  not  over-tenderhearted  —  she  was  even 
then  severe  upon  Joe  if  he  missed  a  shot.  But 
he  saw  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  trembled 
as  she  said,  trying  to  speak  airily  :  u  I  could  n't 
hold  the  birdies  Joe  —  not  after  —  I  felt  their 
little  hearts  —  flutter  so.  I  thought,  what  if 
you  an'  me,  an'  Pappy,  an*  —  yes  —  an'  mother 

—  were   all    in  a  great    b-i-g   jail  —  with   a 
giant  as  high  as  the  sky   pickin'  us  up — an' 

—  an' — we  couldn't  get  away  —  an*  knew 
the  old  giant  meant  to  —  to  eat  us  —  an'  then 

—  well !   I  just  had  to  let  'em  go." 

Joe  was  a  boy,  not  an  angel,  so  of  course 
he  scored  Patsy  roundly  for  her  breach  of  trust, 
but  down  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  was 
just  a  little  glad  she  had  done  what  she  had 


Quail  and  Partridge  135 

done,  although  he  hated  to  lose  the  birds.  But 
somehow  he  never  baited  the  coop  any  more. 
Later  he  came  to  agree  with  his  father  that 
every  hunted  thing  should  have  at  least  a  chance 
for  its  life,  hence  that  coops  had  better  be  left 
to  hungry  fellows  who  wanted  birds  to  eat,  and 
could  not  buy  powder  and  shot  to  get  them. 

Patsy  would  not  go  with  him  bird-hunting. 
She  said  the  little  brown  beauties  ought  not  to 
be  shot  —  they  ate  up  so  many  weed  seed,  and 
destroyed  so  many  insect  eggs,  they  should  go 
scot-free,  besides  having  all  the  wheat,  peas, 
grapes,  cherries,  and  strawberries  they  could 
devour.  Her  father  in  large  part  agreed  with 
her.  He  would  not  allow  indiscriminate  shoot- 
ing, and  always  saw  to  it  that  the  coveys  were 
fed  throughout  snows,  and  in  severe  weather 
generally.  Himself  a  keen  sportsman,  he 
meant  his  son  to  grow  up  likewise.  When 
they  went  out  together,  and  they  went  very 
often,  Joe  was  always  glad.  They  shot  against 
each  other  with  the  best  possible  temper,  and 
when,  as  now  and  then  happened,  Joe  "  wiped 
Marse  Major's  eye,"  that  is  to  say,  knocked 
over  a  bird  Marse  Major  had  missed,  it  was 
not  Joe  who  chuckled  most,  though  Marse 
Major  pretended  to  frown. 

If  their  dogs  got  up  a  late  covey,  the  birds 
not  yet  grown,  they  let  it  go  down  wind  un- 
touched, and  went  on  to  find  another.  Early 


136  Next  to  the  Ground 

in  the  season  they  liked  best  to  beat  the  hedge- 
rows. The  bachelor  birds  fed  there.  The 
bachelors  existed  because  of  the  Mormon  ten- 
dencies. Since  the  stronger  cocks  will  have 
so  many  wives,  there  are  not  wives  enough  to 
go  round.  So  the  very  young  fellows,  and  the 
very  old  ones,  beaten  in  the  struggle,  flock  to- 
gether in  threes  or  couples  the  summer  through, 
skulking  away  from  the  lords  of  families  until 
the  young  are  fairly  grown.  Then  they  feed 
round  about  the  broods,  growing  gradually 
bolder  and  bolder,  until  they  are  accepted  as 
covey  members  in  good  standing.  That  hap- 
pens commonly  about  the  middle  of  December. 
From  then  until  mating  time,  the  first  of 
February,  the  involuntary  prodigals  stay  with 
the  rest. 

At  mating  time  it  often  falls  out  that  the 
exiles  come  to  their  own.  Fighting  and  feed- 
ing alone  the  youngsters  have  grown  stronger 
than  last  year's  lordly  Mormon.  Now  it  is 
his  turn  to  go  to  the  hedgerows,  and  lag  super- 
fluous there  until  a  shot  finds  him  out,  or,  dis- 
abled in  fight,  he  starves.  Cruelty  of  this 
sort  is  among  Nature's  necessary  processes. 
It  is  only  thus  that  she  can  assure  the  per- 
petuation of  the  strongest,  and  the  extinction 
of  those  less  strong. 

Upon  sunrises  before  going  hunting,  Joe 
always  listened  for  the  feeding  calls.  By  the 


Quail  and  Partridge  137 

sound  of  them  he  could  foretell  the  weather. 
He  knew  where  the  coveys  slept  with  reason- 
able certainty.  If  they  fed  in  the  wheat  stub- 
ble among  young  clover,  he  looked  for  a  mild 
day,  with  maybe  rain  at  the  end  ;  if  they  went 
toward  the  woods  he  knew  it  would  be  hot 
and  windy  ;  if  into  the  pea  fields,  or  standing 
corn,  there  was  likelihood  of  snow.  If  they 
sought  thick  sedge,  land  full  of  briers  and 
tangle,  he  might  look  for  very  sharp  cold.  If 
they  lay  close,  not  flushing  until  the  dog  and 
hunter  were  in  the  midst  of  them,  or  ran  along 
the  ground  in  a  swift  line  with  the  dogs  on  a 
dead  point,  he  was  sure  of  heavy  windy  rain. 
What  he  loved  best  was  a  mild,  moist  day, 
not  too  mild,  with  a  sky  overcast,  and  a  little 
tingling  breeze  coming  out  of  the  southwest. 
He  liked  to  have  the  weeds  so  dry  and  dead 
walking  through  them  was  easy.  He  com- 
monly rode  from  field  to  field,  but  did  most 
of  his  shooting  afoot,  although  his  black  colt 
Pipe  Stem,  stood  fire  like  a  veteran.  Joe 
sometimes  shot  off"  him,  with  the  gun  lying 
between  Pipe  Stem's  ears.  Patsy  said  he  did 
that  only  to  show  off,  but  Joe  did  not  think  it 
was  any  great  showing  off,  although  he  was 
reasonably  proud  of  the  colt's  steadiness.  No 
mistake  —  Pipe  Stem  was  a  good  fellow.  So 
also  was  High-Low,  the  pointer  who  divided 
with  the  colt  the  first  place  in  Joe's  affections. 


ij  8  Next  to  the  Ground 

High-Low  had  a  white  coat,  satin  smooth, 
with  big  liver  blotches,  a  deep  brawny  chest, 
strong  back,  good  legs  and  feet,  and  a  perfect 
nose.  He  had  also  a  dashing,  high-headed 
way  of  going.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  him 
quarter,  covering  the  field  in  long  zigzags, 
nose  to  wind,  tail  up  and  lightly  waving, 
glancing  now  and  again  at  the  huntsmen,  and 
whipping  from  one  side  of  them  to  the  other 
at  the  mere  motion  of  the  hand.  Upon  the 
merest  taint  —  as  of  a  running  covey  fifty 
yards  away  —  he  crept  stealthily  forward,  until 
he  caught  a  full  scent,  then  at  once  stood  as 
though  carved  from  stone,  often  with  one  foot 
poised  in  air,  ready  for  the  forward  leap.  He 
would  wait  thus  an  hour,  never  moving,  though 
quivering  through  and  through  in  the  eager- 
ness of  sport,  holding  his  point  until  the  guns 
came.  When  he  heard  Joe  shout  "Hie  on!" 
he  quivered  stronger  than  ever  —  with  joy  this 
time  as  he  made  a  plunging  leap.  Then  he 
came  to  heel  hardly  waiting  for  the  word,  but 
before  the  blurred  booming  of  the  guns  had 
done  echoing,  he  was  out,  retrieving  the  dead 
birds. 

Sometimes  when  a  covey  ran  after  he  came 
to  a  point,  if  the  guns  were  slow  coming  up, 
he  followed  the  running  quarry,  almost  crawl- 
ing himself,  and  looking  shamefaced  as  who 
should  say  :  "  I  know  my  business  —  also  that 


Quail  and  Partridge  139 

this  is  dreadfully  irregular  —  but  really  one 
cannot  let  a  covey  get  clean  away/'  High- 
Low's  face  indeed  was  wonderfully  expressive. 
Joe  declared  the  dog  winked  if  you  asked  him 
if  he  could  be  so  ill-bred  as  to  suck  eggs,  and 
that  he  looked  a  scolding  if,  with  three  guns 
out,  he  put  up  a  covey  and  did  not  have  at 
least  four  birds  to  retrieve.  However  that 
may  have  been,  it  is  a  fact  that  once,  when  a 
city  visitor  took  High-Low  out  and  persis- 
tently missed  every  bird  that  got  up,  after  two 
hours  the  dog  deliberately  went  home,  crept 
under  the  porch,  and  lay  hidden  there  until  he 
saw  the  city  man  go  away  next  morning. 

Joe  shot  always  to  make  a  clean  kill,  or  a 
clean  miss.  He  hated  above  everything  to 
wing  a  bird,  and  maybe  lose  it.  High-Low 
rejoiced  to  have  them  winged.  No  matter 
how  fast  and  far  they  ran,  he  ran  after,  caught 
them,  and  brought  them  to  Joe,  without  rump- 
ling even  a  feather.  Unless  he  followed  them 
by  the  scent  of  the  blood,  Joe  could  not  tell 
how  he  did  it.  Unharmed  birds  he  overran 
—  putting  them  up  sometimes  right  under  his 
feet.  Major  Baker  inclined  to  believe  that 
the  shock  of  the  wound  made  the  winged  bird 
unable  to  withhold  its  scent.  A  bird  badly 
hurt  Joe  always  killed  at  once.  Those  merely 
wing-tipped,  he  often  took  home  to  Patsy,  who 
fed  and  coddled  and  healed  them,  and  some- 


140  Next  to  the  Ground 

times  made  them  so  tame  they  would  come 
up  all  winter  to  feed  with  the  chickens,  though 
they  always  ran  away  in  the  spring. 

It  was  in  bringing  such  birds  home  that 
Joe  found  out  another  curious  trick  of  theirs. 
Some  of  them  fell  as  though  dead,  and  lay  limp 
and  flaccid  so  long  as  he  held  them  fast.  But 
if  he  walked  or  rode  with  the  seemingly  dead 
bird  thrust  loosely  in  his  pocket  or  lying  upon 
his  open  palm,  the  minute  he  came  close  to 
thick  cover  the  dead  came  to  life  —  there  was 
a  flutter,  a  stiffening,  a  flash  of  limping  wings 

—  then  a  bird  out  of  sight  —  and  generally 
past  even  High-Low's  finding. 

Partridge  shooting  is  more  than  mere  sport, 

—  a  liberal  education  in  sureness  of  eye  and 
brain  and  hand.      Unless  they  work  together, 
and  so  swiftly  the  working  appears  to  be  sim- 
ultaneous, it   is  very   near   a  waste  of  good 
powder  to  fire  a  gun.      When  the  covey  whirs 
up,  a  cloud  of  wings,  the  man  who  hesitates 
is  lost.      He  who  takes  slow  aim  is  in  much 
the  same  case.     You   must  see  whether  the 
birds  fly  to  right  or  left,  mark  their  speed,  and 
shoot,  not  at  them  but  where  your  eye  assures 
you  they  will   be   in  the  next  two  seconds. 
Sometimes  this  is  as  much  as  ten  yards  ahead. 
With  birds  going  straight  away,  the  gunner  of 
course  lets  drive  right  at  them.      Commonly 
they  scatter  like  the  fragments  of  a  bursting 


Quail  and  Partridge  141 

shell,  going  down  singly  or  in  couples  all  about 
the  field.  They  keep  a  perfectly  straight 
course  for  maybe  two  hundred  yards,  then 
wheel,  usually  across  the  wind,  and  go  down 
with  a  long  very  gradual  circling  slant.  A 
covey  put  up  and  not  fired  upon  does  not 
scatter,  but  circles,  or  rather  wheels  before 
settling  just  as  do  the  worse  frightened  birds. 
Birds  scattered  by  a  volley  lie  close  for  several 
hours,  until  nightfall  indeed  if  they  are  scat- 
tered in  the  afternoon,  never  stirring  until 
they  give  out  the  assembly-call  and  find  it 
answered. 

There  was  never  any  killing  out  of  whole 
coveys  at  White  Oaks,  not  even  when  the 
neighbors  gathered  for  an  all-day's  hunt  there. 
Often  then  there  were  a  dozen  guns  in  hands 
that  knew  what  to  do  with  them.  Shooting 
began  out  in  the  tangle  upon  the  edge  of  the 
flat-woods.  By  twelve  o'clock  the  hunters 
were  commonly  at  the  creek.  Mrs.  Baker 
sent  down  dinner,  and  they  ate  beside  the 
spring,  while  the  dogs,  tired  and  thirsty,  swam 
about  in  the  creek,  lapping  and  laving  their 
fill.  There  was  a  fire  on  the  bank  for  boil- 
ing coffee.  Mrs.  Baker  would  never  have  in- 
sulted her  own  palate  nor  that  of  a  guest,  with 
coffee  made  a  mile  from  the  place  it  was  to  be 
drunk.  Sometimes  Patsy  went  along  with  the 
dinner  baskets  and  the  coffeepot.  Both  were 


142  Next  to  the  Ground 

in  charge  of  Seeny,  Dan's  wife,  who  was  very 
black,  very  deft,  and  very  discreet.  Seeny  and 
Patsy  also  carried  salt,  pepper,  and  butter  for 
the  bird-roast.  The  hunters  themselves  did 
the  roasting,  wrapping  up  fresh-killed  par- 
tridges, feathers  and  all,  in  lumps  of  very  wet 
clay,  and  then  thrusting  the  lumps  in  the 
hottest  part  of  the  coffee  fire.  By  time  the 
other  things  were  eaten  the  birds  were  done. 
Each  man  pulled  out  his  clay  lump,  cracked 
it  between  two  stones,  peeled  ofF  the  frag- 
ments, which  took  with  them  all  the  feathers, 
then,  holding  the  hot  juicy  bird  by  the  legs, 
dipped  it  in  melted  butter,  salted  it,  peppered 
it,  and  ate  the  tender  flesh,  throwing  away,  of 
course,  the  skeleton,  though  some  few  twisted 
off  leg  bones,  and  craunched  them  in  their 
teeth,  claiming  a  bird's  real  savor  lay  in  the 
bones. 

Since  they  were  kindly  men  and  gallant, 
Patsy  was  tempted  with  many  roasted  birds, 
but  she  would  not  eat.  Captain  Billy  Ven- 
tress,  the  best  shot  in  all  the  hunt,  teased  her 
by  saying  it  was  because  she  herself  was  so 
near  a  bird,  she  did  not  like  to  be  a  cannibal. 
Patsy  was  brown  like  the  birds,  —  brown- 
eyed,  with  a  mop  of  tangled  curly  brown 
hair.  She  stepped  lightly  too,  upon  little 
hollow  feet.  Captain  Billy  claimed  her  for 
his  sweetheart,  gave  her  things,  and  kissed 


Quail  and  Partridge  143 

her,  upon  Christmases  and  birthdays,  but 
since  he  was  a  bachelor  and  very  old,  Patsy 
did  not  mind.  She  was  rising  ten  you  see, 
and  Captain  Billy  —  well,  he  was  thirty  if  he 
was  a  day. 


The  Possum 


Chapter  VII 


[PORT  has  an  extra  relish 
when  it  has  a  tang  of  ven- 
geance underneath.  Joe 
had  a  private  grudge  against 
the  whole  race  of  possums 
—  no  wonder  then  that  he 
liked  a  possum  hunt  even 
more  than  a  bird-hunt.  The  sly  gray-coats 
had  not  only  robbed  him,  but  fooled  him  ever 
and  ever  so  long.  It  happened  in  this  wise. 
Joe  and  Patsy  both  had  small  hen-houses  set 
up  in  the  orchard  quite  apart  from  their 
mother's.  Only  the  spring  before  a  possum 
had  plundered  them,  sucking  eggs  without 
number,  and  eating  many  young  chicks. 
But  there  was  no  way  to  catch  him  —  traps 
he  stepped  over  or  around,  poisoned  eggs 
he  disdained.  The  dogs  told  of  his  presence, 
but  somehow  always  lost  his  trail.  So  Joe 
sat  up  to  watch  for  him,  gun  in  hand,  and 
waited  so  late  he  fell  sound  asleep.  A  great 


148  Next  to  the  Ground 

squawking  and  fluttering  among  the  hens 
with  young  broods  waked  him  —  he  ran  to  the 
hovels,  saw  a  gray  furry  thing  slide  away  from 
them,  leap  upon  the  fence,  follow  it  to  the 
gate,  spring  thence  into  a  black  walnut  tree 
growing  beside  it,  run  along  the  walnut  boughs 
until  they  lapped  those  of  an  oak  above  the 
wood  pile,  scutter  through  the  oak,  and  down 
its  trunk,  and  at  last  disappear  under  the 
logs. 

When  they  got  him  out  at  dawn,  they 
found  the  whole  place  full  of  shells  and 
feathers  and  bones.  The  sly  rascal  had 
harbored  there,  right  under  the  noses  of 
everybody,  choosing  a  route  back  and  forth 
the  wisest  dog  could  not  follow.  It  was 
early  spring,  so  Joe  knew  his  mate  had 
whipped  him  away  from  the  nest.  She  had 
just  got  her  young  in  her  pouches,  so  needed 
all  the  room  herself.  Like  the  mother-hawk, 
she  is  bigger  than  her  mate,  also  a  better 
fighter.  She  will  fight  almost  anything  for 
her  young  until  they  are  big  enough  to  run 
and  climb.  For  six  weeks  after  they  are 
born  she  keeps  them  snug  in  the  pouches 
underneath  her.  When  she  sits  up  you  see 
funny  little  heads  each  side,  sticking  out  of 
the  slit  between  the  pouches,  or  suckling, 
very  much  as  pigs  suck.  They  do  not  stay 
constantly  in  the  pouches.  They  creep  out 


The  Possum  149 

to  play  clumsily,  after  their  eyes  open,  but 
scurry  back  at  her  first  warning  grunt.  The 
play-spells  outside  grow  longer  and  longer, 
but  still  the  young  possums  seek  their  ac- 
customed shelter  until  they  grow  too  big  to 
get  in  it. 

Then  Sis  Possum  carries  them  another 
way,  all  huddled  on  her  back,  with  their  tails 
clinging  to  her  tail,  which  is  held  up  over 
and  parallel  to  the  backbone.  Thus  she  runs 
out  of  the  nest  with  them,  or  blunders  about 
the  woods.  The  nest  is  in  either  a  hollow 
tree,  or  log,  or  stump,  a  dry  cranny  in  the 
bluff,  or  is  scratched  out  beneath  the  floor  of 
a  low-set  outbuilding.  It  is  lined  with  leaves 
and  grass,  and  is  deserted  after  one  season. 

Sis  Possum  likes  best  to  fight  with  a  tree 
or  a  stone  at  her  back,  but  if  she  must  do  it 
in  open  ground,  she  half-crouches  over  her 
young  family,  and  strikes  out  with  teeth  and 
fore  feet.  Her  teeth  are  almost  tusks.  That 
is  another  point  of  likeness  to  her  cousins, 
the  pigs.  Like  them,  also,  she  is  carnivorous 
if  need  be — eating  birds  and  their  eggs,  very 
young  rabbits,  beside  such  small  deer  as  mice, 
and  grub-worms.  To  get  at  the  grubs  she 
turns  over  rotting  logs  with  her  sharp  nose. 
She  also  roots  pig-fashion  for  sprouting  acorns, 
and  nips  off  mouthfuls  of  tender  grass. 

Feeding  thus  in   spring    and   summer  the 


i$o  Next  to  the  Ground 

possum's  flesh  is  coarse,  rank,  tough,  and 
stringy.  The  beast  is  a  gross  and  mighty 
feeder,  yet  withal  an  epicure,  eating  many 
things  and  much  of  them  if  he  must,  eating 
the  best  things,  and  still  more  of  them,  if  he 
may.  He  divides  the  mulberry  crop  with  the 
squirrels,  though  he  does  not  care  much  for 
green  corn.  Sweet  apples  tempt  him  to  the 
orchard,  he  has  also  a  nice  taste  in  black- 
berries. But  none  of  these  compare  in  his 
mind  with  grapes  and  persimmons.  The 
earliest  of  these  ripen  in  September.  By 
October  possums  are  fairly  edible,  but  it  is 
not  until  November  that  they  reach  their 
prime. 

They  are  fat  then  —  fat  as  they  can  wad- 
dle. All  their  flesh  indeed  is  delicate  and  of 
melting  richness.  The  skin  under  the  gray 
white-tipped  hair  glows  a  lively  pink,  like 
the  skin  of  a  young  white  pig.  A  possum 
is  never  skinned  for  cooking.  Instead  it  is 
rolled  in  hot  ashes,  and  scraped  as  a  pig  is 
scraped.  It  is  either  stuffed  with  sweet  po- 
tatoes, and  roasted  whole,  or  baked  with  the 
potatoes  in  the  pan  all  around.  The  cooking 
must  be  thorough — the  skin  crisp  enough  to 
crackle  in  the  teeth.  The  taste  of  a  young 
possum,  properly  fat,  freshly  caught,  and 
dressed  before  he  was  fairly  cold,  is  very 
much  that  of  a  glorified  sucking  pig. 


The  Possum  151 

Before  the  roasting  comes  the  catching, 
consequently  the  possum-hunt.  Black  men 
are  incomparably  the  best  hunters  —  perhaps 
through  the  inherited  aptitude  of  many  gen- 
erations. Joe  always  went  with  Dan  and 
Little  Mose.  Other  black  fellows  went  along, 
but  only  those  two  were  essential.  Dan 
could  out-chop,  out-climb  and  out-halloo 
anything  of  his  inches  in  the  county.  Little 
Mose's  distinction  was  that  he  owned  Wrong, 
the  very  prince  of  possum  dogs. 

Nose  makes  the  possum  dog.  He  may  be 
of  any  breed,  or  all,  or  none.  A  setter  or 
pointer  which  develops  the  possum  nose  is 
hard  to  beat,  but  ruined  for  work  after  birds. 
The  very  best  dogs  are  mongrels  of  wholly  in- 
distinguishable antecedents.  Some  few  have 
rough  wiry  coats  hinting  of  terrier  blood,  others 
jaws  of  bulldog  pattern,  and  still  others  ears 
and  legs  that  bespeak  a  remote  hound  cross. 
A  simple  yellow  cur  may  turn  out  an  ideal 
possum  dog  —  so  may  a  fice,  especially  a 
bench-legged  fice.  But,  whatever  the  breed, 
the  fact  is  indisputable  —  no  litter,  however 
big  it  may  be,  was  ever  known  to  hold  more 
than  one  real  possum  dog. 

Wrong  was  proof  enough  of  that.  Except 
when  the  two  were  hunting,  you  could  scarcely 
distinguish  him  from  his  litter-brother  Right, 
whose  name  had  turned  out  to  be  severely 


152  Next  to  the  Ground 

ironic.  Both  had  dead-black  coats,  crooked 
fore  legs,  strong  jaws,  bluntish  noses,  stump 
tails,  and  pure  pale-green  eyes.  In  spite  of 
the  likeness  Right  was  always  wrong,  and 
Wrong  as  invariably  right.  Right  the  dog 
had  no  brains  whatever.  He  ran  anything  or 
nothing,  just  as  the  notion  took  him,  would 
stand  barking  half  a  day  beside  a  perfectly 
sound  stump,  trying  to  make  the  world  share 
his  belief  that  there  was  some  wonderful  beast 
inside  or  under  it,  or  if  he  ran  a  real  rabbit, 
followed  it  at  an  easy  dilettante  trot,  his 
mouth  open,  and  yawping  once  in  every  ten 
yards.  A  molehill  was  quite  another  matter  — 
he  ran  along  it  so  fast  and  barking  so  furiously, 
he  sometimes  stumbled  over  his  own  fore  legs 
and  took  a  header  that  knocked  the  breath 
out  of  him.  Notwithstanding,  Slow  Pete,  his 
master,  had  faith  to  believe  he  would  make  a 
great  dog,  when  he  had  time  to  come  to  himself. 
Since  Right  was  rising  two  years  old,  Dan  and 
Little  Moses  laughed  at  the  prediction. 

They  scoffed  at  the  bare  mention  of  taking 
Right  possum-hunting.  They  did  not  really 
need  any  other  dog  than  Wrong,  but  since  a 
barking  chorus  is  jollier  of  nights  than  a  single 
cry,  they  tolerated  Daddy  Jim's  two  dogs 
Music  and  Damsel,  who  at  least  knew  enough 
to  follow  Wrong's  lead.  Music  was  a  cur  of 
no  degree,  Damsel  had  a  remote  hound  cross  ; 


The  Possum  153 

neither  was  much  to  look  at,  but  both  had  a 
place  in  the  hearts  of  their  hunting  country- 
men. It  was  a  near  thing  as  to  which  of 
them  was  the  better,  but  nobody  ever  thought 
of  disputing  that  after  Wrong  the  incompar- 
able, the  pair  were  the  best  possum  dogs  in  the 
county. 

All  three  knew  their  business  to  a  nicety. 
They  understood  what  was  up,  in  fact,  as  soon 
as  their  masters  began  splitting  wood  for 
torches.  It  was  odd  to  see  them  then  crouch  at 
the  men's  feet,  looking  up  at  them  with  plead- 
ing eyes,  whining  a  little  and  beating  the 
ground  with  their  tails.  They  dearly  loved  a 
night  run,  and  sometimes,  when  the  torches 
were  for  fishing,  they  were  left  at  home, 
chained  to  the  cabin  walls.  Hence  the  little 
entreating  whimpers,  the  crawling  to  the  mas- 
ter's feet  to  lay  the  head  upon  them.  Wrong 
had  this  much  of  real  greatness  —  he  never 
thought  himself  indispensable.  Instead  he 
begged  as  piteously  to  be  taken  as  the  awkward- 
est  and  most  unkempt  puppy  of  the  possum- 
dog  brotherhood.  Before  hunting  nights  Little 
Mose  always  gave  him  extra  feed  at  breakfast, 
with  only  bread  and  milk  at  noon,  and  a  hunch 
of  ash-cake  for  supper.  He  knew  a  dog  must 
have  strength  to  run  well,  also  that  he  would 
never  run  his  best  nor  trail  his  best  with  an 
overfull  stomach. 


154  Next  to  the  Ground 

Possum-hunters  have  an  assembly-call  the 
same  as  partridges.  It  is  a  keen  whooping 
halloo.  Little  Moses  generally  raised  it,  in 
signal  to  the  rest  to  gather  in  the  road  before 
his  cabin.  Dan  and  Joe  were  commonly  the 
first  to  answer  it.  Dan  could  out-whoop  Little 
Mose  if  he  tried  —  but  when  your  hunting 
depends  largely  upon  the  loan  of  another  fel- 
low's dog,  it  is  not  the  part  of  wisdom  to  hal- 
loo him  down  at  the  beginning.  As  the  hunt 
trooped  in,  Little  Mose  distributed  torches. 
Daddy  Jim  always  fetched  his  own  torch  — 
he  had  a  special  art  of  shaping  and  tying  the 
stick  bundles  so  they  burned  with  a  steady 
pointed  flame.  Joe  had  tried  to  learn  the  art, 
but  Daddy  Jim  pretended  he  had  none.  He 
was  secretive  in  many  things  —  as  for  example 
regarding  the  bait  he  used  when  he  came  back 
with  such  fine  strings  of  fish,  and  how  to  make 
a  water-melon  vine  bear  red-meated  melons 
or  yellow,  at  will. 

A  possum  dog  is  generally  likewise  a  fine 
coon  dog,  so  the  three  dogs  did  not  know 
until  the  hunters  laid  their  course  what  sort  of 
game  they  were  expected  to  follow.  Coons 
abide  in  the  woods  along  the  streams.  They 
cannot  live  far  away  from  fresh  water,  since 
they  first  dip  into  it  every  stored  morsel  they 
eat.  If  the  hunt  headed  for  the  creek,  that 
meant  coons  as  plain  as  daylight.  If,  contrari- 


The  Possum  155 

wise,  it  went  toward  the  old  fields  and  the 
strip  of  tangle,  possum  was  the  word.  And 
then  the  dogs  were  glad  —  so  glad  they  leaped 
and  fawned  upon  their  masters,  then  set  off 
running  full  tilt,  and  barking  in  little  short 
happy  yelps  as  they  ran.  Wrong's  bark  was 
his  worst  point.  It  was  shrill,  almost  whin- 
ing. Damsel  had  a  bell  note,  Music  a  loud 
half-roaring  voice,  not  the  least  bit  musical, 
but  dependably  honest. 

Luck  is  best  under  a  growing  moon.  At 
least  every  experienced  black  possum-hunter 
firmly  believes  so.  That  is  not  strange  con- 
sidering he  also  believes  that  life  and  death, 
and  blight  and  growth,  the  turn  of  the  seasons, 
wind,  sunshine,  and  rain,  all  depend  upon  lunar 
influence.  He  explains  that  as  the  moon 
waxes  or  wanes  so  does  the  scent  of  the  wild 
creatures.  Naturally  a  growing  scent  leaves 
a  trail  quickly  found  and  easily  followed.  If 
there  is  a  color  of  reason  behind  his  belief,  it 
is  easy  to  understand  why  November  hunts 
are  so  fruitful.  The  Hunter's  Moon  shines 
then,  red  and  fiery  at  the  rising,  later  a  shield 
or  a  sickle  of  burnished  silver  swimming  slow 
across  a  violet  velvet  sea.  It  rises  earlier  than 
any  other  moon  of  the  year.  The  light  of  it 
makes  bright  the  fields  and  woods  when  it  is 
even  a  little  way  up  the  sky.  But  the  thickets 
are  densely  dark.  Torchlight  is  needed  there 


156  Next  to  the  Ground 

—  also  late  or  early  when  the  moon  does  not 
shine. 

Still,  it  is  bad  luck  to  start  out  by  torchlight. 
After  the  hunt  is  a  hundred  yards  away,  it 
does  not  so  much  matter.  Dan  commonly 
lit  his  torch,  even  if  there  was  a  moon,  when 
they  came  to  the  fence  around  the  old  field. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  hedgerow  you  might 
have  walked  through  the  rotting  rails  anywhere. 
The  old  fields  made  part  of  the  land  that  had 
been  in  chancery.  It  was  all  of  twenty  years 
since  a  plough  had  run  in  them.  Still  there 
were  many  acres  clear  of  everything  but  sedge, 
yet  thickets  were  plenty,  and  very  tall,  as  were 
also  persimmon  trees.  Grape  vines  overran 
the  thickets,  and  not  one  persimmon  tree  in 
a  dozen  was  unfruitful.  Persimmon  trees 
are  male  and  female,  but,  luckily  for  Brer  Pos- 
sum and  his  congeners,  the  proportion  of  un- 
fruitful staminate  trees  to  fruitful  pistillate 
ones  is  less  than  one  to  twenty.  Hedgerow 
thorns  made  it  well  to  go  in  through  the  gap, 
unless  you  coveted  rents,  tatters,  and  scratches. 
The  White  Oaks  possum-hunters  did  not 
covet  them  —  still  sometimes  they  struggled 
through  the  wall  of  tangled  stems,  so  as  to 
make  a  short  cut  and  get  ahead  of  impertinent 
earlier  comers,  whom  they  heard  whooping  in- 
side. Whoever  came  first  to  the  big  swale, 
about  the  middle  of  the  old  fields,  always  got 


The  Possum  1.57 

the  cream  of  the  night's  hunting.  There  were 
some  six  hundred  acres  of  the  old  fields,  so 
there  was  room  for  many  possums  and  their 
hunters.  But  since  White  Oaks  lay  nearest, 
those  who  lived  there  felt  a  sort  of  pre-emption 
right  to  choice  in  the  chase  after  the  night 
rangers. 

Persimmon  trees  are,  after  a  sort,  sylvan 
immortelles.  Nobody  ever  saw  a  dead  one, 
any  more  than  a  dead  mule.  Cutting  down 
and  grubbing  up  does  not  destroy  them.  They 
sprout  cheerfully  from  the  tiniest  tip  of  root, 
and  keep  on  sprouting  from  year  to  year,  de- 
fying even  August  cutting.  As  to  seat,  the 
tree  is  nobly  catholic,  growing  and  bearing 
much  fruit  upon  thin  land,  growing  more, 
bearing  still  more  fruit,  upon  rich.  It  spreads 
by  seed  as  well  as  by  sprouts.  In  the  sunny 
open  fields,  which  it  loves  passing  well,  it  grows 
commonly  in  clumps,  from  five  to  twenty, 
though  the  clumps  stand  well  apart.  In  the 
woods  it  grows  singly,  and,  curiously  enough, 
ripens  its  fruit  earlier  than  when  growing  in 
the  open.  There  are  very  many  varieties  of 
it,  differentiated  mainly  by  the  several  man- 
ners of  fruit.  Some  trees  ripen  it  early  in 
September.  Others  keep  the  acrid  puckery 
tang  until  February.  The  early  trees  are  often 
bare  before  frost,  covering  the  ground  under- 
neath with  their  fruit,  which  is  round,  deeply 


158  Next  to  the  Ground 

flattened  at  either  end,  of  a  deep  tawny  yel- 
low, and  thickly  covered  with  the  richest  blue 
bloom.  The  flowers,  green  and  inconspicuous, 
come  out  in  mid-May  all  along  last  year's 
twigs.  Sometimes  they  are  very  many,  some- 
times very  few.  By  their  number  you  can 
judge  the  next  fall's  persimmon  crop,  since 
every  one  sets  fruit.  This  early-ripe  fruit  is 
lusciously  sweet  and  juicy.  The  pulp  is  near 
the  color  of  a  ripe  pumpkin's  flesh,  but  a 
thought  more  tawny.  It  lies  close  around 
the  seeds,  which  are  flat,  satin-smooth,  and  of 
a  light  brown,  each  firmly  incased  in  a  fleshy 
skin.  A  persimmon  might  indeed  be  described 
without  libel,  as  a  rosette  of  these  flat  seeds 
bedded  in  pulp  and  covered.  To  the  very  last 
the  seeds  keep  the  puckery  quality  of  the  green 
fruit,  so,  in  eating,  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom 
merely  to  suck  the  pulp. 

Late  persimmons  hang  on  all  winter,  and 
are  thus  a  real  godsend  to  the  wild  things  in 
the  time  of  deep  snows.  The  trees  grow  most 
commonly  on  poor  clay  soil,  lying  high  and 
dry,  yet  reach  a  fair  size  for  their  kind.  Per- 
simmon trees  never  grow  big  —  one  as  much 
as  two  feet  across  at  the  butt  is  exceptional. 
The  late  trees  bear  lavishly,  literally  loading 
down  their  twigs  with  fruit,  but  the  fruit  is 
small,  not  half  the  size  of  the  early  globes,  yet 
fuller  of  seed.  It  is  also  dry,  to  mealiness,  yet 


The  Possum  159 

well  worth  eating  when  picked  frozen  from  the 
tree.  Betwixt  the  early  sort  and  the  late  there  is 
a  constant  succession.  All  but  the  very  latest 
cast  their  fruit  as  soon  as  it  reaches  full  ripeness. 
Wild  grapes  are  something  the  same  way. 
They  are  divided  roughly  into  summer  grapes 
and  winter  ones,  though  the  summer  grapes 
do  not  ripen  until  October.  They  turn  black 
the  last  of  August,  but  are  hard  and  so  sour, 
even  the  birds  leave  the  clusters  for  a  while 
untouched.  By  and  by  when  the  leaves  turn 
yellow,  and  the  tendrils  crisp,  summer  grapes 
are  truly  delectable.  Strong  young  vines 
rooted  in  a  rich  hedgerow,  or  woodland,  bear 
many  long  clusters  of  fruit  as  big  as  a  pea. 
Old  vines  cumbered  with  much  wood,  blos- 
som profusely,  but  bear  little  fruit.  What 
they  do  bear  commonly  hangs  so  high  the  birds 
get  all  of  it,  though  sometimes  when  the  crop 
is  heavy,  and  there  comes  a  warm  rainy  spell 
just  after  frost,  the  grapes  drop  from  the 
bunches  and  feast  the  hogs  wild  and  tame 
which  may  happen  to  have  the  range  of  the 
woods.  These  vines  climb  to  the  tip  of  the 
tallest  oaks,  and  occasionally  are  as  big  around 
as  a  man's  body.  How  they  climb  so  high  is 
a  mystery.  Often  they  have  long  swaying 
cables  two  inches  through,  running  up,  up,  with 
no  sign  of  tendril,  nor  of  twig  to  which  a  ten- 
dril might  cling,  for  thirty  or  forty  feet. 


160  Next  to  the  Ground 

Muscadines  which  are  half  wild,  half  tame, 
growing  as  well  in  the  garden  as  the  woods, 
look  more  like  plums  than  grapes,  though  the 
vine  proclaims  their  real  nature.  They  are 
as  big  as  small  marbles,  and  grow  in  clusters 
of  three  or  five.  They  turn  black  in  August, 
and  ripen  in  mid-September.  As  soon  as  they 
are  ripe  they  drop,  often  bursting  if  they  drop 
from  a  good  height.  They  are  full  of  sweet 
juice  and  pale-greenish  pulp.  The  skin  is 
thick,  leathery  even,  black  outside  with  a 
heavy  blue  bloom,  and  deep  wine-red  inside. 
It  is  full  of  burning  foxy  flavor  that  quite 
spoils  the  fruit  for  the  human  palate.  But 
muscadine  wine,  properly  made,  is  nearly  as 
good  as  champagne  —  clear,  sparkling,  of  a 
delicious  pale  pink,  and  a  rich  fruity  bouquet. 
Proper  making  is  tedious  work  —  the  pulp 
must  be  deftly  popped  out,,  and  the  skins 
thrown  away.  Pigs  and  possums  do  not  in 
the  least  object  to  the  skins,  though  some- 
times when  they  are  eyelid-deep  in  musca- 
dines, they  raise  their  heads,  open  their  mouths, 
and  make  a  little  blowing  noise,  as  though 
trying  to  cool  a  burning  tongue. 

Winter  grapes,  otherwise  coon  grapes,  are 
inedible  even  to  Brer  Coon  until  after  frost 
has  fallen  upon  them.  The  vines  are  ram- 
pant, the  fruit  very  plenty,  though  both  the 
clusters  and  the  berries  are  much  smaller  than 


The  Possum  161 

the  summer  grapes.  The  skin  is  black  and 
shining.  Pulp  there  is  none,  but  when  ripe 
the  twin  seeds  seem  to  swim  in  sweetish  odd- 
flavored  juice.  The  vines  love  a  moist  situ- 
ation, so  take  possession  of  the  banks  along 
wet-weather  streams,  pond  edges,  and  low 
overflown  flats  beside  the  creeks.  They  grow 
also  in  swales  if  once  they  can  manage  to 
overtop  other  growths.  They  have  not  the 
summer  grape's  facile  habit  of  creeping  from 
shade  into  the  fullest  sunshine,  no  matter  what 
stands  in  the  way. 

Winter  grapes  hang  on  a  long  time  —  until 
March  unless  they  are  pecked  away.  Some- 
times they  even  dry  up  in  the  bunch.  Foxes 
love  them  so  well,  they  haunt  the  ground 
underneath,  nosing  about  for  the  scattered  ber- 
ries the  luckier  birds  have  flung  down.  Brer 
Fox  is  by  no  means  opposed  to  mixing  his 
grapes  with  all  the  birds  he  can  catch.  Indeed 
some  say  it  is  the  chance  of  bird-catching  that 
brings  him  to  the  grape-tree,  and  that  the  nos- 
ing in  the  leaves  is  merely  a  blind.  Brer  Fox 
is  beyond  question  a  strategist,  still  he  must  be 
granted  his  natural  appetites.  One  fox  at 
least,  captive  and  far  from  content,  showed 
every  mark  of  delight  when  a  choice  handful 
of  coon  grapes  was  flung  into  his  cage. 

Possums  may  be  depended  on  to  know  and 
choose  the  best  feeding-ground.  Hunting-luck 


1 62  Next  to  the  Ground 

depends  very  much  upon  the  hunter's  know- 
ing the  same  thing.  In  the  old  field,  Joe 
and  Dan  had  the  lay  of  the  land  by  heart. 
The  big  swale  was  full  of  grapes,  summer 
and  winter  ones,  not  to  name  crab-apples  and 
black  haws  and  persimmons  thick  enough 
on  the  higher  ground  round  about  the  swale 
always  to  furnish  two  or  three  trees  fully  ripe. 
So  they  went  straight  to  it,  crossing  open 
breadths  of  sedge,  with  the  dogs  running  out 
in  leaping  circles  upon  either  side.  Wrong 
worked  majestically  alone.  Music  and  Damsel 
kept  together  as  though  hunting  in  couple. 
They  were  excellent  comrades  except  now 
and  then,  when  it  happened  Music  was  taken 
upon  a  night  hunt  and  Damsel  left. 

All  three  ran  deviously,  sniffing  audibly, 
and  visible  only  when  they  leaped  higher  than 
the  sedge.  It  came  up  to  the  waist,  in  places 
even  up  to  the  shoulders.  So  the  hunters  cried 
lustily  to  the  dogs  :  "  Hi-yi !  hi-yi !  Hunt 
him  up !  Hunt  him  up,  old  dog  !  "  The 
crying  was  spasmodic.  There  must  be  inter- 
vals of  silence  to  catch  a  dog's  possible  open- 
ing on  the  trail.  The  trail  might  be  struck 
in  the  unlikeliest  place.  Brer  Possum  comes 
and  goes  almost  as  crookedly  as  Brer  Rabbit. 
But  no  matter  how  crooked  a  line  may  be,  if 
you  take  a  compass  and  keep  drawing  circles 
all  over  the  surface  it  crosses,  one  circle  is 


The  Possum  163 

sure  at  last  to  fall  slap  upon  it  —  hence  the 
tactics  of  the  dogs. 

When  Damsel  found  first,  Daddy  Jim  gave 
a  yell  at  least  three  miles  wide  and  half  a 
mile  high.  Daddy  Jim's  dogs  stood  to  him 
for  wife  and  children  and  friends.  So  the 
others  never  in  the  least  grudged  his  triumph 
—  Little  Mose  indeed  led  the  whooping  after 
him,  quite  as  though  Wrong  was  not  in  the 
field.  Everybody  ran  pell-mell  after  the  dogs, 
all  three  in  cheery  full  cry.  Somehow  their 
notes  accorded  well  —  particularly  well  when 
they  were  undervoiced  by  lusty  yells  and 
whoopings.  It  was  a  jocund  rush  to  the 
persimmon  trees.  There  often  the  moon- 
shine showed  a  couple  of  gray  gluttons  feast- 
ing in  the  very  tip.  Persimmon  trees  are 
ill  to  climb  —  they  are  not  only  distressingly 
slender,  but  have  few  low  growing  branches. 
Notwithstanding,  somebody  at  once  went  up 
to  shake  out  the  feasters.  The  climber  got 
as  near  them  as  he  dared  go,  then  set  the  tree 
rocking,  at  the  same  time  shaking  with  all  his 
might  the  especial  branch  to  which  they  clung. 
If  they  were  fat  —  and  what  November  pos- 
sum is  not  ?  —  he  easily  shook  loose  their  foot- 
hold, but  then  the  tail  came  into  play.  A 
possum's  tail  is  as  long  as  himself,  very  strong, 
and  hairless  for  six  inches  from  the  tip.  With 
this  hairless  part  he  can  grip  and  cling,  wrap- 


164  Next  to  the  Ground 

ping  it  round  and  round  a  small  bough,  and 
holding  fast  though  the  shaking  may  swing 
him  back  and  forth  like  a  pendulum. 

Sometimes  if  he  felt  the  tail-hold  slipping 
he  let  go  and  made  a  mad  leap  for  a  neighbor- 
ing bough.  But  when  at  last  he  was  shaken 
out,  or,  if  that  was  impracticable,  the  tree  it- 
self chopped  down,  he  lay  seemingly  dead, 
eyes  shut,  tail  limp,  paws  limber,  a  lump  of 
fur  and  flesh  not  even  stirring  at  a  snuffing 
dog.  He  did  not  breathe  indeed  so  long  as 
his  captors  stood  watching  him,  but  once  their 
eyes  turned  elsewhere  he  was  up  and  away  like 
a  flash.  He  rarely  got  the  chance,  though. 
Somebody  either  hustled  him  into  a  stout 
gunny-sack,  or  slipped  his  tail  into  the  cleft 
end  of  a  sapling,  and  swung  him  over  the 
shoulder.  A  double  catch  —  that  is,  two  pos- 
sums in  one  tree  —  was  balanced  at  either  end 
of  the  sapling,  and  sent  joyously  home.  A 
fat  possum  is  too  heavy  to  carry  uselessly 
throughout  a  night  hunt  —  how  much  more 
then  two  fat  possums  ?  The  beasts  were 
always  kept  alive,  fed,  and  often  fattened,  until 
wanted  for  cooking.  Unless  dressed  as  soon  as 
killed,  the  flesh  becomes  rank  and  unpleasant. 

It  was  odd  to  see  the  dog  strike  a  wild-cat's 
track.  They  ran  faster  than  ever,  but  with 
bristles  up  and  a  deeper  menacing  note  in  their 
barking.  Wrong  always  seemed  to  be  pro- 


The  Possum  165 

testing  —  he  trailed  nothing  but  possums  and 
coons,  though  he  could  do  no  less  than  join 
in  the  crying  when  Music's  growling  note 
said  u  Varmint !  "  There  were  not  so  many 
wild-cats,  but  almost  every  season  one  was 
killed.  The  negroes  never  let  a  cat  slip  if 
they  could  help  it  —  Major  Baker  had  a  stand- 
ing offer  of  a  lamb  and  a  pig  for  barbecuing, 
to  each  man  who  killed  a  wild-cat.  The  cats 
if  they  multiplied  would,  he  knew,  cost  him 
very  many  pigs  and  lambs.  When  old  and 
savage,  they  kill,  not  from  hunger,  but  purely 
for  the  sake  of  killing.  Their  harborage  was 
the  sink-holes  about  in  the  swales,  especially 
the  big  swale,  which  had  a  water-shed  of  many 
acres.  When  the  dogs  ran  them  to  their  holes 
somebody  threw  a  lighted  torch  into  the  hole, 
and  when  the  wild-cat  leaped  out,  yowling  and 
spitting,  trying  to  turn  on  his  back,  or  to  sink 
his  claws  in  a  dog  as  he  leaped,  he  was  knocked 
down  with  long  poles,  and  quickly  killed. 
Whoever  gave  him  the  finishing  stroke  cut  off 
his  ears,  and  the  tip  of  his  blunt  tail  to  show 
he  was  a  real  wild-cat,  not  merely  a  tame  cat 
gone  wrong.  But  even  if  the  tail  was  long, 
the  Major  did  not  grudge  the  reward. 

Towards  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  moon 
stood  high  enough  to  light  up  tall  timber,  the 
possum-hunt  was  apt  to  turn  into  a  coon-hunt 
—  particularly  if  it  had  had  great  luck  in  pos- 


1 66  Next  to  the  Ground 

sums.  Coons  compared  to  possums  are  lean 
at  their  fattest,  but  of  a  high  game  flavor, 
savory  enough  after  a  surfeit  of  sweet  fat. 
Old  Man  Shack  said  "a  yearlin'  coon  that 
had  n't  hustled  hisself  too  much,  killed  when 
the  sign  was  right,  skinned  with  the  head  on, 
and  fixed  up  nice  with  pepper  and  salt,  an' 
flour-doin's  inside,  was  better 'n  any  wild  turkey 
that  ever  gobbled  or  strutted  "  —  but  the  old 
man,  it  was  well  known,  would  eat  pretty 
much  anything  that  could  begot  inside  an  oven 
or  roasted  in  the  ashes.  For  the  most  part, 
negroes  only  ate  the  coons.  Joe  tasted  the 
meat  once,  when  Dan  had  a  particularly  fine 
roast.  It  was  well-flavored,  but  somehow  he 
did  not  relish  it.  He  did  relish  though,  to  the 
utmost,  a  coon-hunt  after  midnight. 

The  world  lay  all  enchanted  then,  with  the 
dew  crisping  into  frost  under  the  silver  moon- 
shine. There  were  white  blurs  and  blotches 
upon  the  tree-trunks,  and  a  glorious  mottle  of 
light  and  shadow  all  over  the  rustling  leaves. 
The  dogs  ran  freer,  and  bayed  louder,  the 
whoops  were  keener  and  more  thrilling. 
Wrong  took  the  lead  then  as  of  right.  No 
coon  ever  littered  could  trick  his  keen  nose  — 
not  even  by  springing  from  one  tree  to  another 
for  maybe  three  hundred  yards  before  he  came 
to  earth  and  set  off*  at  a  dead  run  for  his  water- 
side castle. 


The  Possum  167 

Wrong  ran  leaping,  catching  the  scent  in  air, 
barking  as  he  ran,  his  eyes  glinting  green  fire. 
When  at  last  he  treed,  either  at  the  nest,  or 
away  from  it,  he  was  the  very  moral  of  quiver- 
ing eagerness  until  he  saw  the  axes  out  and 
somebody  building  a  fire.  Then  he  lay  down 
sedately,  put  his  nose  between  his  fore  paws, 
but  kept  his  eyes  fast  upon  the  tree. 

When  the  coon  was  shaken  out,  or  the  tree 
came  crashing  down,  Wrong  was  upon  his  foe 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Coons  are  hard 
and  bitter  fighters,  turning  upon  their  backs  as 
they  touch  the  earth,  and  striking  out  furiously 
with  teeth  and  claws.  But  no  matter  how  big 
and  savage  the  coon,  nor  what  a  master  of 
fence  he  showed  himself,  Wrong  never  let  him 
get  away.  Wrong  had  both  the  wit  and  the 
art  to  nip  Brer  Coon  betwixt  ear  and  shoulder, 
whirl  him  over  and  finish  him  with  a  quick 
crunch  at  the  back  of  the  neck.  Sometimes 
when  a  nest  tree  came  down  and  a  whole  coon 
colony  was  chopped  out  of  the  snug,  grass- 
lined  woody  chamber  in  which  they  had  thought 
to  sleep  away  part  of  the  winter,  Wrong  had 
to  choose  betwixt  old  coons  and  young,  and 
always  chose  those  who  would  put  up  the  best 
fight. 

Coons  hibernate  but  slightly,  sleeping  com- 
monly from  the  winter  solstice  to  about 
Ground-hog  Day  —  which  is  the  second  of 


1 68  Next  to  the  Ground 

February.  They  nest  high,  in  hollows  well 
up  the  trunks  of  tall  trees.  A  warm  spell  in 
January  wakes  them  to  sit  nodding  and  blink- 
ing in  the  doors  of  their  holes.  But  the  sleep- 
ing is  evidently  not  to  escape  cold  weather, 
since  they  run  about  over  light  early  snows,  and 
if  the  creeks,  at  their  lowest  in  November, 
skim  over  from  sudden  severe  weather,  often 
break  the  ice  to  wash  their  feet,  their  faces,  and 
their  breakfasts,  thus  showing  themselves  the 
cleanliest  among  nest-making  animals.  Joe 
had  had  more  than  one  young  coon  for  a  pet. 
They  were  pretty,  intelligent,  and  full  of  cun- 
ning tricks, but  so  mischievous  he  always  ended 
by  turning  them  loose  as  soon  as  they  were  big 
enough  to  shift  well  for  themselves. 

Sharp  axes,  with  strong  and  willing  arms  to 
ply  them,  bring  down  very  big  trees  in  a 
little  while.  By  time  the  coon  was  caught  or 
the  colony  chopped  out,  the  fire  was  blazing 
royally  and  potato-roasting  in  order.  Some- 
times the  potatoes,  sweet  yellow  yams,  came 
out  of  the  gunny-sack  or  the  pockets  of  the 
hunters.  Oftener  somebody  had  slipped  aside 
to  plunder  an  outlying  patch.  Nobody  ever 
objected  to  such  plundering.  It  was  accepted 
indeed  as  the  sign  of  good  neighborhood  — 
besides  the  plundered  knew  their  potatoes 
might  come  back  to  them  in  the  shape  of  a 
fat  possum.  The  yams  were  dumped  right 


The  Possum  169 

in  the  middle  of  the  fire,  covered  first  with 
embers,  then  with  blazing  brands  that  would 
shortly  be  coals,  and  left  for  half  an  hour, 
men  and  dogs  the  while  lying  supine  upon 
the  leaves,  feet  to  the  fire,  the  men  telling 
ghost  tales,  or  hunting  stories,  or  the  signs 
and  wonders  of  witch-work.  Joe  listened 
drowsily,  watching  the  moonshine  creep,  the 
fireshine  flicker,  until  his  eyelids  shut  of  their 
own  weight.  And  then  he  knew  nothing 
more  until  Dan  hauled  him  up  standing,  thrust 
something  hot  into  his  hands,  and  said  loudly  : 
u  Wake  up,  ole  son  !  Eberybody  else  done 
eat  er  hot  tater  —  eben  ter  de  dawgs." 

Going  home  through  the  gray  small  hours 
with  cocks  crowing  all  about,  the  hunters 
often  sang.  Daddy  Jim  never  sang  out  loud 
but  droned  a  low  deep  under-chord.  Most 
of  the  songs  were  but  snatches.  Dan  said 
Daddy  Jim  knew  every  song  that  ever  was 
made  for  a  night  hunt  but  wanted  to  keep 
them  all  to  himself.  Little  Mose  also  knew 
songs,  and  many  tales  of  the  animals,  but  he 
had  a  fitful  memory  —  it  was  not  once  a 
month  he  could  sing  anything  or  tell  anything 
straight  through.  If  Joe  lives  to  be  a  hun- 
dred he  will  never  forget  one  especial  night 
hunt,  all  mist  and  moonshine,  when  Little 
Mose  found  his  memory,  and  sang  without 
a  break,  this  true  and  proper  coon  song. 


Next  to  the  Ground 

\LE    Brer  Ring-Tail,  Ring, 

Ring,  Ring  — 
Ring-Tall  !  Ring-Tail ! 

Ring-  T-a-i  —  /  / 
He  lip  froo  de   tree,  an*   he 

swore  "  By  jing  !  " 
Ring-  Tail !  Ring-  Tail  / 
~  Ring-T-a-i  —  I! 
De  dog  wa'nt  er  puppy  dat  eber  could  ketch  him  ! 
De    nigger  wd'nt  er  nigger  dat  eber  could  fetch 

him  / 

De  bag  wa'nt  er  bag  dat  eber  would  fetch  him,t 
Ter  turn  an*  twis'  an*  splutter  an*  sizz, 
Down  dar  in  de  F  on  jail. 

Brer  Ring-Tail  mighty  sly,  but  de  moon,  moon, 

moon  — 

Moon-  Shine!  Moon-Shine!  Moon-S-h-i-n — e!  ! 
Hit  gut  de  tricks  ter  beat  ole  Brer  Possum  an1 

Brer  Coon 

Moon-Shine/Moon- Shine!  Moon-S-h-i-n — e!! 
Hit  tote  ole  Brer  Possum  :  "  Tes,  yo  tail  is  mighty 

long!" 
Hit  tol  ole  Brer  Coon  :  "  Tes,  yo  claws  is  mighty 

strong  !  " 
Hit  tole  ole  Brer  Rabbit :   "  To  ears  is  set  on 

wrong  ! 

But  you  aint  got  er  show  when  I  lets  my  dog  go  ! 
Den,  you  ebery  one  is  mine  !  " 


Night  Noises 


Chapter    VIII 


|OUND  carries  wonderfully 
through  the  unvexed  hush 
of  a  farmland  night.  As 
dusk  deepens  to  thick  dark- 
ness the  stillness  of  woods 
and  fields  becomes  impres- 
sive. Night  noises  break 
up  the  stillness  as  a  stone  dropped  into  a  pool 
breaks  up  its  glassy  surface. 

Joe  loved  to  listen  for  the  night  noises. 
He  thought  if  he  should  go  to  sleep,  and  wake 
suddenly  months  afterward,  he  would  know 
the  season  by  the  night  sounds.  The  sounds 
made  a  sort  of  aural  calendar.  Every  month 
had  its  own,  and  every  sort  of  weather.  Sum- 
mer sounds  were  so  many  they  blurred  and 
blended  ;  so  did  those  of  the  full  springtime. 
Upon  winter  nights  the  noises  were  littleislands 
set  in  washing  seas  of  silence,  unless  the  wind 
blew  very  hard.  Fall  nights  were  vocal,  but 
the  voices  were  always  distinct,  rising  with 
clean-cut  cadences,  and  dying  as  they  rose. 


174  Next  to  the  Ground 

Cocks,  which  crow  all  the  year  round  for 
midnight  and  for  daybreak,  begin  early  in 
November  to  crow  more  and  more  frequently, 
until  at  Christmas,  according  to  Shakespeare  : 

"  The  bird  of  morning  singeth  all  night  long" 

Shakespeare  and  superstition  agree  that  the 
constant  crowing  is  to  banish  ghosts  and 
witches,  and  make  the  nights  safe  and  whole- 
some all  through  the  holy  days.  Science  con- 
trariwise, says  atavism  —  throwing  back  to  the 
jungle  days,  when  the  wild  ancestors  of  our 
domestic  fowls  sounded  their  clarions  as  a  sort 
of  sentry-call  to  frighten  offnight  prowlers,  who 
are  always  most  audacious  and  most  bloodthirsty 
at  this  special  season.  A  fact  in  support  of 
science  is  that  you  may  set  cocks  crowing  as 
the  nights  lengthen,  anytime  after  nine  o'clock, 
by  lightly  disturbing  the  roost,  or  even  moving 
about  it  carrying  a  torch  or  lighted  lantern. 

Cocks  never  crow  simultaneously.  Some- 
times a  veteran  begins,  oftener  a  pert  young 
cockerel  half  rouses,  flaps  his  wings  three  times, 
and  flings  across  the  still  dark  his  raucous 
immature  challenge.  He  may  crow  twice  be- 
fore he  is  answered.  Generally  better  grown 
cocks  upon  the  same  roost  keep  silence  until 
they  hear  from  the  neighbors.  Then  they 
crow  lustily  two  or  three  times,  at  intervals 
of  a  minute.  The  sounds  ripple  from  farm 


Night  Noises  175 

to  farm.  All  through  the  hushed  fields  there 
is  a  cross-fire  of  answering  crows,  near  or  dis- 
tant, but  all  shrilly  clear.  By  the  distance 
and  direction  Joe  could  tell  whose  cocks  an- 
swered first.  Little  Mose  half  a  mile  off  had 
a  famous  red-game  fellow  whose  crow  was 
really  tuneful  by  contrast  with  the  hoarse  sput- 
tering note  of  the  Shanghais  and  Langshans 
over  at  the  Suter  place  half  a  mile  beyond 
Mose's  cabin. 

Upon  the  off  nights  when  Joe  himself  was 
not  hunting,  he  came  pretty  near  to  knowing 
who  was  afield.  Indeed  he  could  not  help 
but  know  —  yells,  halloos,  and  barks  are  so  dis- 
tinctly individual.  When  they  came  in  run- 
ning chorus,  with  the  beat  of  flying  axes  a  little 
later,  and  afterward  the  crash  of  a  falling  tree, 
it  all  meant,  of  course,  that  a  coon  had  run  his 
last ;  but  by  the  after-whooping  Joe  judged 
whether  old  man  Shack  had  got  him,  or  Daddy 
Jim,  or  some  of  the  black  fellows  from  the 
saw  mill.  Even  in  whooping  the  old  man 
drawled  a  bit  —  though  night  hunting  was  the 
one  thing  at  which  he  was  not  lazy.  Daddy 
Jim's  whoop  was  mellow,  but  savage  at  the 
very  last.  The  mill  fellows  whooped  hoarse 
and  hungrily,  as  though  their  vocal  chords  were 
in  need  of  oil. 

The  sounds  came  clearest  upon  still  moon- 
lit nights,  but  loudest  when  the  air  was  thick 


ij6  Next  to  the  Ground 

and  mists  hung  in  the  tree  tops.  In  Decem- 
ber, the  ground  froze  hard  of  nights,  and  then 
you  could  hear  all  the  passing  on  the  big  road 
for  miles  and  miles.  Still  it  did  not  touch  the 
borders  of  White  Oaks.  The  road  ran  to  the 
county  town  seven  miles  away.  There  was 
much  heavy  hauling  over  it,  and  in  the  fall, 
before  the  winter  rains,  the  red  clay  surface 
of  it  was  beaten  as  smooth  and  almost  as  hard 
as  glair  ice.  Wheels  did  not  rattle  or  grind  over 
it.  Instead  they  set  up  a  sort  of  vibrant  hum. 
Shod-teams,  or  even  those  half-shod  beat  out 
with  their  hoofs  a  deep  drumming  rat-tat. 
Those  going  barefoot  made  a  blurred  plopping 
sound.  Saddle-horses  galloping  set  the  clay 
ringing  almost  as  though  it  were  metal. 

The  road  wound  down  a  long  hill  to  cross 
the  creek.  A  spring  broke  out  just  above  the 
ford.  Wagoners  often  camped  there.  Joe 
knew  when  they  meant  to  camp  by  the  way 
they  rattled  their  teams  down  hill.  The  sound 
of  axes  chopping  logs  for  the  camp  fire  was 
quite  superfluous.  He  knew  too  by  the  rattle 
whether  the  wagons  were  light  orladen.  Light, 
they  made  a  great  clatter ;  loaded,  they  bumped 
and  jarred.  Wind  and  weather  had  much  to 
do  with  the  distinctness  of  the  sound.  The 
road  ran  to  northwards.  South  winds  blew 
back  the  sounds,  as  northerly  ones,  or  north- 
westerly, brought  them  straight  to  the  ear. 


Night  Noises  177 

The  railroad  came,  at  its  nearest  point,  with- 
in five  miles  of  White  Oaks,  but,  with  the 
ground  frozen  and  the  wind  right,  you  might 
have  fancied  you  heard  the  trains  just  back  of 
the  fields.  There  was  a  trestle  of  some  height 
a  little  beyond  the  nearest  point.  Joe  could 
tell,  by  the  sinking  of  the  sound,  when  the 
trains  were  slacking  up  for  it,  long  before  he 
heard  the  three  whistles,  which  asked  the 
bridge-walker  if  it  were  firm  and  clear.  He 
got  a  time-table,  and  amused  himself  by  noting 
when  trains  were  on  time  or  behind  it.  He 
began  to  hear  the  noise  of  passing  five  minutes 
after  they  left  the  station  in  town.  He  had 
tested  that  over  and  over.  One  especial  train, 
the  south-bound  limited,  was  due  to  leave  at 
seven  sharp.  It  started  in  a  deep  cut,  else 
you  might  have  heard  the  whistle  at  White 
Oaks.  When  it  struck  the  open,  a  little  down 
grade,  the  burr  and  buzz  of  it  went  all  across 
country.  Joe  persuaded  himself  that  the  burr- 
ing and  buzzing  were  some  way  unlike  the 
sound  of  the  two  freights,  which  ran  next,  but 
Patsy,  who  was  a  regular  Fine-Ear,  laughed 
at  him  —  though  she  agreed  anybody  could 
tell  the  noise  of  a  coal  train,  it  was  so  much 
more  a  grumble  than  that  of  common  freight. 

Toward  Christmas  the  big  road  was  so  much 
travelled  the  noises  ran  into  each  other. 
Everybody  went  to  town  and  stayed  until  sun  • 


178  Next  to  the  Ground 

down,  hustling  for  Christmas  money  or  spend- 
ing Christmas  money  already  in  hand.  Since 
there  was  no  fun  in  listening  to  a  stream  of 
noises  you  could  not  disentangle,  Joe  and 
Patsy  gave  ear  to  the  foxes  barking  in  the 
woods,  the  owls  hooting,  the  chickens  scramb- 
ling about  on  the  perches,  and  sometimes  fall- 
ing with  a  great  squawking  clatter.  Their 
fine  new  feathers  were  so  thick  and  warm, 
cold  touched  them  only  upon  the  feet.  They 
roost  in  huddled  rows,  with  the  breast-bone 
coming  down  upon  the  perch  between  the 
claws.  When  their  feet  begin  to  sting  and 
pinch,  they  rouse  the  least  bit,  and  crowd  to 
one  side  or  the  other,  trying  thus  to  bring  one 
aching  foot  upon  the  perch  where  it  is  warm 
from  contact  with  the  breast-bone.  If  the 
whole  perchful  sidled  at  once,  and  in  the  same 
direction,  all  would  be  well;  But  the  sidling 
is  individual,  and  often  in  contrary  directions, 
—  hence  the  squawking  falls,  hence  also  the 
chicken  thief's  trick  of  the  warm  board,  learned 
most  likely  from  the  gypsies.  It  is  simple, 
sure,  silent.  The  thief  warms  a  long  board, 
light  and  narrow  enough  to  be  easily  held  hori- 
zontal, and  thrusts  it  in  through  the  hen  hole, 
under  and  parallel  to  the  nearest  perch.  After 
it  is  in  place  he  presses  the  warm  surface  of 
it  up  against  the  breasts  of  the  drowsy  birds. 
As  the  grateful  warmth  comes  to  them  they 


Night  Noises  179 

step  still  more  drowsily  off  perch  upon  the 
warm  surface,  and  settle  down  with  a  soft, 
satisfied  chuckle.  How  many  settle  there  de- 
pends upon  the  nerve  and  the  muscle  of  the 
chicken  stealer.  Two  or  three  fat  hens  upon 
the  far  end  of  a  long  board,  make  even  sturdy 
arms  ache  after  a  bit.  The  board  must  not 
droop  the  least  bit  —  if  it  does  the  chickens  fall 
off.  It  must  be  slowly  and  steadily  with- 
drawn, until  the  nearest  hen  can  be  grasped 
through  the  hole.  Her  neck  is  wrung  deftly, 
another  and  another  follows  until  the  warm 
board  is  empty.  But  no  tramp  nor  outlander 
need  attempt  the  trick  at  a  well-furnished 
Tennessee  hen-house.  There  are  always  dogs 
to  give  warning.  If  the  warm  board  has  done 
its  work,  the  fact  is  first-hand  proof  that  the 
hen-roost  has  suffered  the  dishonest  troubling 
of  a  friend. 

Time  out  of  mind  dogs  have  bayed  the 
moon,  but  it  is  from  the  farmlands  she  gets 
the  most  varied  chorus.  Major  Baker  kept 
nine  dogs.  Eight  of  them  were  supernum- 
eraries, so  far  as  guarding  the  place  went. 
Watch,  the  guard-dog  proper,  a  big  white 
mastiff  strong  enough  to  pull  down  a  mule 
or  an  ox,  let  nothing  come  or  go  unchallenged 
after  dark.  He  was  not  a  noisy  dog.  In- 
deed acquaintance  with  him  taught  both  Joe 
and  Patsy  that  a  dog's  bark  was  really  in 


180  Next  to  the  Ground 

inverse  ratio  to  his  bite.  All  day  Watch 
was  a  frolic  on  four  legs,  ready  to  leap  and 
tumble  about,  stand  up,  and  shake  hands  across 
the  yard  gate,  or  roll  Joe  and  Patsy  over  and 
over  in  the  leaves  or  upon  the  grass,  some- 
times catching  a  hand  or  foot  in  his  mouth, 
but  never  so  much  as  bruising  it.  He  car- 
ried Billy-Boy  on  his  back,  or  crawled  to 
put  his  head  in  the  little  fellow's  lap.  Visit- 
ing neighbors  he  saluted  with  respectful  wags 
of  his  bushy  tail,  strangers  he  followed  to 
the  front  door,  eying  them  judicially  as  he 
walked.  That  is,  unless  they  were  foolish 
enough  to  make  advances,  such  as  whistling 
to  him,  or  trying  to  pat  his  head.  Then 
he  growled  hoarsely,  and  showed  half  his 
teeth. 

All  this  by  daylight.  At  night  even  his 
master  had  to  ask  his  leave  to  go  in  or  out. 
If  any  unwary  stranger  got  through  the  yard 
gate  Watch  leaped  upon  him,  threw  him  over, 
and  pinned  him  down,  howling  loudly  for  his 
master  to  come  and  see  what  manner  of  man 
he  held.  Still,  unless  the  captive  struggled 
the  dog  did  not  bite.  He  was  vigilant,  not 
vicious.  The  least  sound  round  about  the 
yard,  lawn,  orchard,  or  stable  lot,  set  him  off 
patrolling.  He  never  barked  unless  he  found 
something  really  suspicious.  Patsy  said  he 
could  smell  out  thieves  from  honest  folk. 


Night  Noises  181 

However  that  may  have  been,  he  had  cer- 
tainly a  wonderful  nose,  and  a  still  more 
wonderful  eye.  If  he  was  bidden  to  cut  out 
from  the  herd  and  catch  one  hog  or  sheep  or 
calf  in  a  hundred,  he  did  it  without  fail,  if  he 
had  to  follow  it  all  day,  through  and  across 
all  the  tracks  of  a  populous  pasture. 

Beside  the  home  dogs,  every  negro  on  the 
place  owned  from  one  to  five.  Thus  the 
Christmas  guns  were  answered  always  with 
a  yelping  howling  chorus.  Neither  men  nor 
dogs  thought  of  sleeping  a  wink  upon  Christ- 
mas Eve.  The  negroes  big  and  little  got 
home  from  town  about  midnight.  You  could 
hear  them  singing  and  shouting  half  an  hour 
before  the  wagon  turned  in  through  the  gate. 
They  whooped  and  sang  more  while  they  fed 
the  team,  and  later  themselves.  Then  they 
popped  firecrackers,  half  a  dozen  at  a  time, 
standing  out  in  front  of  their  cabins,  and 
chaffing  each  other  at  long  range.  Towards 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning  they  touched  ofF 
the  Christmas  guns  —  hollow  logs  with  a  pound 
of  powder  securely  plugged  inside  with  a  fuse 
of  waxed  or  greasy  string  running  through  a 
gimlet  hole  in  the  plug.  The  Christmas 
guns  made  a  big  awkward,  blurring  noise. 
By  time  the  echoes  of  it,  and  the  dogs  were 
quiet,  the  gunmakers  had  set  out,  singing,  or 
rather  droning  hymn  tunes  as  they  went, 


1 82  Next  to  the  Ground 

upon  a  round  of  industrious  and  far-spread 
visiting. 

All  the  white  folks  sat  up  to  hear  the 
blacks  sing,  as  they  watched  upon  Old  Christ- 
mas Night.  The  blacks  were  shy  and  fur- 
tive over  this  watching.  White  folks  who 
did  not  believe  in  witches,  nor  conjure-work, 
nor  even  in  ghosts,  were  unsympathetic  with 
their  lively  and  child-like  faith  that  Christ 
was  born  in  a  cow- shed,  cradled  warm  be- 
tween two  snow-white  heifers,  and  that  still 
upon  his  proper  birth-night,  cattle  knelt  to  do 
him  homage.  They  also  believed  it  was  bad 
luck  to  watch  the  kneeling  cattle,  and  still 
worse  luck  not  to  be  singing  when  the  cocks 
crew  for  midnight.  Their  singing  was  weird, 
a  droning,  wordless  monochord,  by  turns  low 
or  loud,  and  always  in  perfect  time,  no  matter 
how  many  sang.  Although. so  simple,  it  was 
thrilling.  They  sang  in  the  log  church  Major 
Baker  had  helped  them  build  for  themselves 
in  the  corner  of  the  old  fields,  next  to  White 
Oaks.  When  the  singing  was  at  its  loudest 
you  could  hear  it  two  miles  off.  The  mel- 
lowing of  distance  made  it  indescribably 
plaintive. 

The  January  sound  in  Joe's  calendar 
though  was  not  the  Old  Christmas  chant. 
In  a  spell  of  bitter  cold  about  the  second  or 
third  night,  the  house  timbers  and  the  trees 


Night  Noises  183 

in  the  woods  froze  and  popped  like  guns,  but 
with  a  harsher,  flatter  noise.  The  popping 
was  scattered,  coming  maybe  half  a  dozen 
times  in  a  night,  and  commonly  after  the 
turn  of  it.  Joe  wondered  no  little  as  to  how 
it  was  made.  It  could  not  be  that  the  timbers 
burst  from  freezing,  as  a  pitcher  or  a  glass 
would  do  if  left  full  of  water.  The  house 
had  been  standing  fifty  years,  yet  the  sills 
and  plates  were  as  sound  as  at  first.  Still,  once 
or  twice  in  the  woods  he  saw  curious  gaping 
seams  up  and  down  a  trunk.  Old  man  Shack 
explained  that  tc  such  trunks  were  fool  trees 
that  had  hilt  their  sap  too  long  and  had  it 
freeze  in  'em  an'  bust  "  —  but  Joe  was  not 
sure  the  old  man  ever  told  the  truth  except 
by  accident. 

In  February  it  was  the  sheep-bells.  Feb- 
ruary was  lambing  time.  The  ewes  ran  on 
the  early  wheat,  and  one  in  three  was  belled. 
This  was  to  save  them  from  the  dogs.  Many 
bells  frighten  off  a  sheep-killing  dog  which  is 
not  hungry  but  kills  for  the  fun  of  killing.  That 
is  the  besetting  sin  of  bird-dogs,  which,  how- 
ever, are  shrewd-witted  enough  to  leave  their 
home  flocks  untouched  and  go  miles  away  for 
sheep-slaughter.  In  another  fashion  the  bells 
were  protective.  When  any  commotion  in 
the  flock  set  up  such  a  ringing,  Joe  or  his 
father  at  once  went  out  to  see  what  it  meant. 


184  Next  to  the  Ground 

Bells  before  midnight  seldom  meant  more 
than  a  stir  and  fright  from  casual  passing. 
Sheep-killing  dogs  know  enough  to  wait  until 
sheep-owners  are  very  sound  asleep.  But 
any  time  between  midnight  and  day,  a  tinkle 
even  was  alarming. 

March  had  the  noise  of  many  waters.  A 
pouring  day  or  a  quick  thaw  made  the  creek 
a  mad  thing,  brawling  fifty  yards  wide,  snatch- 
ing at  the  drifts,  gnawing  gravel-beds  and 
sand-bars,  roaring  out  hoarse  and  hollow 
threats  as  it  raced  past  bluff  and  tree.  The 
big  horned  owls  seemed  to  take  the  threats  as 
personal.  They  lived  down  in  the  creek  val- 
ley, and,  with  the  stream  at  flood,  hooted  from 
hill  to  hill  all  night  long. 

In  April  the  swallows  came  to  rumble  down 
the  long-necked  stone  chimneys  at  dark,  and 
twitter  and  chitter  there  the  nights  through. 
Tree-toads  also  began  to  peep,  spasmodically 
at  first,  but  as  the  spring  strengthened  so  did 
the  peeping,  until  it  filled  the  whole  night 
world.  It  is  a  long-drawn  ululation,  in  many 
keys.  Tree-toads  run  all  sizes  from  the  spread 
of  your  hand  to  the  end  of  your  thumb.  Na- 
ture colors  them  in  protective  mimicry  of  the 
leaves  and  trunks  they  live  on  and  among. 
The  big  very  flat  ones  are  a  clear,  young  leaf- 
green.  The  tiny  fellows  are  greenish  gray, 
for  all  the  world  like  the  lichens  upon  the  oak 


Night  Noises  185 

trunks.  Intermediate  sizes  run  the  whole 
range  of  greens,  grays,  and  gray-browns. 
Clinging  flat  against  the  trunk,  you  can  hardly 
distinguish  a  toad  from  a  blur  of  lichens. 
The  creatures  hop  up  or  down,  or  back  or 
forth,  in  the  most  astonishing  fashion.  They 
can  get  over  ground  as  well  as  the  common 
toads,  but  are  much  more  at  home  in  the  trees. 
They  live  upon  ants,  moths,  midges,  and 
young  slugs,  crawling  upon  the  slenderest 
twigs  to  get  them,  even  resting  contentedly 
upon  the  under  side  of  a  fluttering  leaf  itself. 
The  peeping  is  not  continuous,  but  very  oft 
repeated.  It  rises  crescendo  at  the  end,  and 
there  is  a  delicate  little  accenting  cluck  be- 
tween. If  they  began  to  peep  in  daylight,  or 
the  crying  lasted  until  dawn,  Joe  knew  he 
might  look  for  rain.  Thus  they  opposed  the 
whip-po'-will,  which  also  came  in  April,  but 
whose  call,  even  in  the  face  of  a  thunder-cloud, 
is  a  sure  presage  of  no  rain  that  night. 

Tree  frogs  and  whip-po'-wills  sang  on 
through  May  and  June,  often  so  loud  you 
could  scarcely  hear  your  ears  for  them,  but  in 
Joe's  mind  May  nights  belonged  to  the  mock- 
ing-birds —  especially  nights  of  the  full  moon. 
Then  he  often  lay  awake  all  night  long,  en- 
tranced by  their  night  chorus,  the  richest  of  all 
the  year.  Three  mockers  nested  in  the  gar- 
den —  one  in  the  arbor  matted  over  with 


1 86  Next  to  the  Ground 

white  roses  and  honeysuckle,  another  in  the 
plum  thicket,  and  a  third  in  a  hedge-row  peach 
tree,  overrun  with  a  rampant  muscadine.  The 
garden  was  big,  and  not  very  trim,  really  half 
orchard,  with  a  touch  of  playground.  The 
mockers  policed  it  vigorously,  never  letting 
dog  or  cat  go  through  it.  There  was  another 
and  shyer  colony  of  them,  in  the  very  back 
of  the  orchard,  nesting  in  some  very  slim,  tall 
cherry  trees,  yet  haunting  and  harboring  in 
the  orchard  hedgerow.  All  of  them  sang  by 
day,  but  with  such  exquisite  mimicry  it  was 
hard  to  distinguish  the  singing  from  that  of 
the  birds  the  singers  mocked.  At  night  they 
sang  more  clearly,  more  constantly,  flooding 
the  still  world  with  pure  melody,  in  rippling 
tricksy  cascades.  Love  and  strenuous  rivalry 
lay  under  the  singing.  Each  tried  to  outdo 
all  the  rest  in  the  ears  of  his  brooding  mate. 

June  had  a  clown's  note  —  the  big  double- 
bass  bullfrog's:  "Jug-o-rum!  Jug-o-rum  ! 
Brek-ke-ke-coax  !  Brek-ke-ke !  Jug-o-rum- 
um-um  !  Ru — um!  "  Though  they  bellowed 
something  earlier,  Joe  always  set  them  men- 
tally to  lead  the  orchestra  of  June.  He  specu- 
lated sometimes  as  to  what  a  fine  fright  it 
would  give  a  stranger  —  say  a  man  from  Mars 
—  to  find  himself  alone  at  night  in  a  swamp 
where  bullfrogs  were  plenty,  and  laughed  to 
think  of  the  Martian's  relief  when  he  came  to 


Night  Noises  187 

find  out  the  ridiculous  disproportion  between 
Brer  Frog  and  his  voice.  And  he  will  never, 
no  matter  how  long  he  lives,  forget  his  father's 
comment  upon  a  disappointing  great  man : 
"  O  !  He  's  a  sort  of  bullfrog  —  sounds  very 
big  until  you  see  him." 

After  June,  the  deluge  —  otherwise  the 
katydids.  Their  first  song  was  important. 
Countryside  folk  believe  that  three  months 
from  the  day  of  it,  neither  earlier  nor  later, 
there  will  come  killing  frost.  .  Where  tobacco 
is  a  money  crop  the  frost  date  means  much. 
Wheat  and  tobacco  were  the  money  crops  at 
White  Oaks  —  hence  a  great  comparing  of 
notes  as  to  when  the  first  katydid  was  heard. 
Katydids  are  not  pretty,  but  look  wiser  than 
King  Solomon.  They  are  long-legged,  also 
many  legged,  with  longish,  boat-shaped  bodies, 
and  are  bright  grass-green  all  over.  They 
swarm  all  through  the  big  new  leaves,  sleeping 
the  day  around,  to  feed  and  sing  at  night.  It 
is  almost  a  continuous  singing,  long  drawn  and 
rasping,  not  shrill  like  the  tree-toads',  and  of 
a  maddening  monotony.  It  begins  at  dark 
and  lasts  until  after  midnight.  Poets  who 
sing  the  stillness  of  summer  nights  have  cer- 
tainly never  heard  katydids  in  July  and  August. 

Indeed  throughout  the  later  summer  day  is 
stiller  than  night.  Though  the  katydids  lead 
in  number  and  volume  of  noise,  tree-toads 


1 88  Next  to  the  Ground 

peep  on,  whip-po'-wills  wheel  and  shout,  Brer 
Bull-Frog  pipes  away  upon  his  double  bassoon. 
Sometimes,  but  rarely,  a  mocker,  nesting  late 
through  a  mischance  to  his  early  building, 
drops  down  a  snatch  of  languid  melody,  but 
the  melody  is  lost  in  the  noise  of  creeping  and 
crawling  things.  As  a  chorus  the  summer 
insects  no  doubt  delight  the  Wagnerian  soul, 
which  bids  avaunt  such  things  as  melody  and 
harmony.  But  the  simple  folk  who  think 
music  the  better  for  tune  and  time,  find  it  a 
trifle  wearing,  and  rejoice  when  September 
silences  a  large  part  of  the  choristers. 

Katydids  keep  on  singing  through  Septem- 
ber, but  the  month-note  with  Joe  was  the 
cricket's.  He  was  always  very  glad,  and  just 
a  little  sorry  when  he  caught  the  first  cheep. 
It  meant  many  things  to  him  —  slacking  work, 
time  to  rest,  and  read,  and  play  —  the  delight 
of  gathering  in  fruits  and  nuts.  But  it  meant 
also  that  a  summer  was  dead.  And  Joe  loved 
the  summer.  Still  he  could  not  bewail  it  when 
October  brought  the  fox-hunting.  Fox-hunt- 
ing began  with  night-hunting  —  thus  hounds 
in  full  cry,  horns  singing  thin  and  high  and 
sweet,  galloping  hoofs  and  cheery  whooping 
halloos,  stood  to  him  for  the  month  and 
rounded  out  the  year.  Of  course  there  were 
no  hard  and  fast  limits.  Every  noise  lapped 
or  lapsed  —  either  going  over  into  another 


Night  Noises  189 

month  or  failing  to  fill  wholly  its  own.  Not- 
withstanding none  of  them  fitted  so  well  in 
another  place  as  in  its  own.  He  was  glad  he 
had  ranged  them  in  due  sequence,  as  he  was 
glad  of  anything  that  fixed  more  clearly  in  his 
mind  the  charms  and  the  aspects  of  his  beloved 
fields. 


The  Big  Snow 


Chapter  IX 


|ERE  is  a  tale  Little  Mose 
told  Joe  by  way  of  account- 
ing for  Brer  Rabbit's  hare- 
lip. Brer  Rabbit  was  the 
very  first  thing  created, 
when  the  Lord  up  in 
Heaven  decided  to  make 
a  world.  That  of  course  accounts  for  the 
fact  that  Brer  Rabbit  is  not  so  well-propor- 
tioned as  he  might  be  —  he  is  really  to  be 
regarded  in  the  light  of  an  experiment.  Still 
when  he  was  dry  and  running  around,  he 
was  set  to  keep  watch  over  other  animals  as 
they  were  created.  Brer  Coon,  Brer  Possum, 
and  Sis  Cow,  Brer  Rabbit  shooed  away  all 
right,  but  when  Brer  Fox  got  lively  on  his 
legs,  he  was  inclined  to  argue  the  question. 
Still  Brer  Rabbit  minded  his  work,  and  kept 
Brer  Fox  in  check  until  Brer  Fox  somehow 
persuaded  him  to  eat  a  piece  of  puccoon  root, 
which  at  once  made  Brer  Rabbit  so  sleepy  he 


194  Next  to  the  Ground 

nodded.  The  Lord  meantime  had  made  the 
moon  and  set  it  up  by  the  fence.  It  was 
gilded  all  over,  and  the  gilt  not  dry.  Brer 
Fox  thought  it  looked  good  enough  to  eat, 
so  he  slid  past  Brer  Rabbit,  and  licked  and 
licked  the  new  moon,  until  he  made  the 
dark  places  still  visible  over  the  face  of  it. 
Just  as  he  was  about  to  bite  the  edge  of  it, 
the  Lord  turned  around,  saw  what  he  was 
doing,  and  in  anger  flung  his  trowel  spang  at 
Brer  Rabbit.  It  hit  him  in  the  mouth,  and 
cut  his  lip  in  two.  By  way  of  punishment, 
the  Lord  decreed  that  the  cut  should  mark 
all  later  rabbits  —  also  that  Brer  Fox,  who 
seems  to  have  a  knack  of  escaping  his  deserts, 
should  be  entitled  to  eat  Brer  Rabbit  — 
whenever  he  could  catch  him. 

If  the  big  snow  of  all  big  snows  had  never 
come,  Little  Mose  might  never  have  had  time 
to  remember  the  tale.  Then,  if  ever,  witch- 
work,  whose  polite  and  bookish  name  is 
enchantment,  touches  the  farmlands.  Big 
snows  are  not  a  winter  commonplace  round 
about  White  Oaks.  Indeed,  in  that  latitude, 
winter  is  truly  a  season  of  vagary,  —  sometimes 
so  mild  and  open  flowers  bloom  all  through 
it,  early  blossoms  lapping  over  upon  linger- 
ing remnant  late  ones,  —  other  times,  so  sav- 
agely cold  even  navigable  waters  freeze  hard 
enough  for  teams  to  be  driven  across  them. 


The  Big  Snow  195 

More  commonly,  it  is  a  season  of  contradic- 
tions —  lumps  and  blotches  of  hard  cold, 
mixed  with  other  lumps  and  blotches  of  April 
weather  and  real  Indian  summer. 

Snow  stops  farm  work,  but  brings  no  holi- 
days. Joe  went  to  bed  each  night  as  tired  as 
he  was  happy.  This  snow  was  twenty-six 
inches  on  the  level,  with  drifts  over  a  tall 
man's  head.  It  began  to  fall  just  after  day- 
light, first  in  little  round  spiteful  stinging  pel- 
lets, pelting  so  hard  they  jumped  up  at  a 
lively  rate  when  first  they  struck  the  earth. 
They  came  out  of  a  lead-gray  cloud  that 
seemed  to  rest  upon  the  tree-tops,  and  were 
whirled  about  by  a  sobbing  gusty  east  wind. 
Weatherwise  people  said,  because  it  was  an 
east  wind  the  snow  was  sure  to  turn  into 
either  rain  or  sleet.  According  to  their  belief, 
the  wind  could  not  veer  from  east  to  north 
without  boxing  the  whole  compass.  If  once 
it  blew  straight  from  the  south,  the  snow 
would  melt,  thaw  and  resolve  into  its  original 
element,  water. 

When  the  wind  did  whip  around  north- 
west, they  shook  their  heads  and  said  the 
weather  was  not  what  it  used  to  be.  They 
shook  them  still  more  when  the  pellets  became 
a  smother  of  glistening  icy  dust  so  thick  you 
could  hardly  see  ten  yards  through  it.  Pres- 
ently, when  the  dust  lay  half-leg  deep,  the 


1 96  Next  to  the  Ground 

thermometer  went  tumbling  from  just  below 
freezing  to  a  little  above  zero.  Then  the 
dust  became  a  wall  of  thick  soft  flakes,  small 
at  first,  but  all  the  while  growing  bigger, 
until  at  last  they  fell  with  little  soft,  fat  plops, 
like  the  patting  of  fairy  fingers.  They  kept 
it  up  until  after  midnight.  The  moon  rose 
then,  and  the  strengthening  wind  blew  every 
hint  of  cloud,  or  vapor  even,  out  of  the  air. 
It  was  a  still-voiced  wind,  neither  shrieking 
around  the  eaves  nor  howling  down  the 
chimneys.  To  make  up  for  that,  it  cut 
with  an  edge  of  tempered  steel,  and  when  the 
sun  rose  over  a  white  muffled  world,  mys- 
teriously strained  all  warmth  out  of  the  pink 
shining,  and  flung  it  back  into  stellar  space. 

Notwithstanding,  everybody  came  out  with 
a  whoop  of  joy.  Joe  in  particular  saw  so 
much  fun  ahead  he  danced  and  capered  as  he 
buttoned  on  his  second  pair  of  trousers  over 
the  first.  When  the  legs  of  both  pairs 
were  snug  inside  his  high  boots,  the  boots 
duly  greased,  and  his  feet  further  protected 
by  two  pairs  of  home-knit  woollen  socks,  one 
pair  outside  the  boots,  one  pair  in,  he  was 
ready  to  face  and  conquer  the  snow  and  all 
its  works. 

Some  of  them  were  pitiful.  For  instance 
among  the  birds.  A  partridge  covey  deeply 
snowed  in  will  perish  without  help,  though 


The  Big  Snow  197 

snow  less  than  a  foot  it  can  break  through, 
by  rising  all  together.  That  is,  unless  the 
snow  is  crusted  over.  Then  the  poor  brown- 
ies beat  their  lives  out  knocking  against  the 
crust.  Joe  found  that  some  coveys  had  been 
wise  enough  to  leave  their  ground  perches  for 
the  thickets.  Even  there  they  were  in  snow 
caves,  since  the  thickets  were  all  mounded 
over.  But  they  had  at  least  a  chance  of 
life  and  some  small  show  for  food.  There 
were  peas  and  sumach  berries  in  most  thickets 
standing  higher  than  the  snow.  The  buck- 
berries,  though,  were  all  hidden,  so  were  most 
of  the  weed  seed,  all  of  the  grasses,  and 
likewise  all  of  the  mast. 

Joe  scattered  food  in  every  likely  place  — 
wheat,  corn,  peas,  heads  of  millet,  locks  of 
hay.  He  threw  corn  only  under  the  thick- 
ets. If  he  put  it  in  the  open  he  knew  the 
pestilent  crows  would  steal  it,  and  also  try  to 
seize  upon  other  smaller  birds  as  they  came 
to  feed.  Several  rescued  coveys  he  turned 
loose  in  the  granary,  which  was  big  and  quiet, 
and  had  still  bins  of  wheat  along  one  side. 
The  birds  would  be  safe  there  from  foxes  and 
minks  —  he  knew  if  he  took  them  home  and 
put  them  in  a  coop,  they  would  be  too  fright- 
ened to  feed  well.  Since  many  birds  would 
infallibly  be  lost,  he  wanted  to  save  every  life 
possible  among  them. 


198  Next  to  the  Ground 

Partly  because  of  the  wish,  he  set  a  dozen 
traps  in  the  hedgerows,  and  around  the  hay- 
stacks. Whatever  he  caught,  he  promised 
himself,  should  have  food  and  shelter  through 
the  snow,  and  liberty  afterward.  He  was  the 
least  bit  sorry  for  the  promise  when  he  found 
redbirds  in  two  of  the  traps  pretty  soon  after 
they  were  set.  Patsy  had  wanted  a  redbird 
for  a  pet  this  ever  and  ever  so  long.  Joe 
decided  before  he  laid  hands  on  the  fine  fel- 
lows to  tell  Patsy  of  his  promise,  then  give 
her  the  birds,  and  leave  her  own  conscience 
to  do  the  rest. 

The  birds  were  cardinals,  as  gorgeous  as 
their  namesakes  and  as  warlike  as  any  car- 
dinal that  ever  wore  the  red  robe.  They  bit 
Joe's  fingers  so  hard  they  drew  blood,  and 
tried  to  peck  him  savagely  in  the  eye,  as  he 
was  huddling  them  inside  his  overcoat.  Once 
they  were  inside  the  roomy  cage,  they  flew  at 
each  other  in  fury,  each  seeming  to  regard  his 
fellow  as  an  upstart  intruder,  somehow  the 
cause  of  his  own  evil  case.  In  separating 
them  for  the  sake  of  peace,  Patsy  let  the  most 
savage  of  them  get  away.  It  flew  to  the  very 
top  of  the  room,  and  clung  there  with  its  crest 
up,  scolding  vigorously  at  all  the  people  in 
sight.  A  little  later  it  flew  back  to  the  outside 
of  the  cage,  stuck  his  head  as  near  through 
the  bars  as  possible,  ruffled  its  feathers  menac- 


The  Big  Snow  199 

ingly,  and  made  a  shrill  hissing  note  that  set 
the  bird  inside  also  to  ruffling  and  hissing. 
This  kept  up  for  two  days,  the  bird  out  of 
the  cage  meantime  growing  tamer  than  the 
bird  within.  Though  he  defied  capture,  he 
watched  Patsy  intently  when  she  set  food 
and  water  where  he  could  reach  it,  and 
flew  down  to  it  the  minute  she  was  a  safe 
distance  away.  And  when,  the  second  even- 
ing, he  managed  to  fly  out  of  an  incautiously 
opened  door,  he  hung  about  the  house,  sleep- 
ing at  last  in  a  cedar  tree  a  little  way  from 
the  front  door,  and  came  bright  and  early 
in  the  morning  to  the  window-sill,  peeked 
through  it,  ruffled,  and  hissed  defiance  of  his 
imprisoned  enemy,  whose  cage  sat  just  inside. 
The  window  looked  out  on  the  back  piazza. 
Joe  and  Patsy  had  strung  oat  sheaves  and  mil- 
let heads  all  along  under  the  eaves  of  it.  They 
also  strewed  grain  upon  the  ground  outside, 
so  all  the  winter  birds  were  chattering  and 
chittering  there.  The  redbird  noticed  none 
of  them.  He  fed  disdainfully  alone,  pecking 
out  all  the  grains  of  a  stalk,  then  tossing  the 
head  away.  As  soon  as  he  was  done  he  flew 
upon  the  sill,  and  began  to  torment  the  caged 
bird.  Patsy  was  strongly  tempted  to  set  her 
captive  free,  but  Joe  insisted  that  they  had 
better  be  kept  from  fighting  until  warm  weather 
should  improve  their  tempers. 


2OO  Next  to  the  Ground 

The  fifth  day  of  captivity  she  turned  the 
caged  bird  out  in  the  room.  He  had  grown, 
not  tame  but  fearless,  and  at  once  flew  all 
about,  investigating  everything.  There  was 
a  pan  of  water  upon  the  hearth  a  little  way 
from  the  chimney  jamb.  The  bird  flew  down 
to  it,  drank,  balanced  himself  gingerly  upon 
the  rim  of  it,  stepped  one  foot  over  the  edge, 
then  plunged  in  up  to  his  neck,  and  began  a 
lively  fluttering  —  all  this  less  than  six  feet 
from  where  Major  Baker  sat,  making  a  pre- 
tence of  reading.  His  bath  over,  the  cardinal 
hopped  out,  shook  himself  vigorously,  then 
sailed  up  to  the  top  of  a  tall  secretary,  perched 
there  and  began  to  dress  his  feathers  with  the 
utmost  nicety.  After  a  little,  satisfied  with 
his  coat,  he  hopped  down  upon  the  bureau, 
and  caught  sight  of  his  image  in  the  glass. 
His  tormentor  outside  was  invisible.  At  once 
he  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  the  bird 
in  the  glass  was  his  enemy.  Ruffling,  with 
fiercely  lowered  wings  and  a  sibilant  hiss,  he 
rushed  at  the  mirror.  The  impact  was  so  vio- 
lent he  was  thrown  backward  several  inches, 
but  in  a  breath  he  was  again  up  and  at  it. 
Twice,  three  times,  four  times,  he  charged 
this  enemy,  evidently  as  eager  and  as  angry 
as  himself.  Each  time  something  cold  and 
hard  and  smooth  held  him  back.  After  the 
fourth  failure,  he  stood  quiet  a  full  minute, 


The  Big  Snow  201 

with  his  head  the  least  bit  aside.  Evidently 
he  was  in  deep  thought.  As  a  result  of  it, 
he  marched  to  the  side  of  the  glass,  stretched 
his  neck  cautiously  and  peeped  behind  it.  It 
stood  perhaps  six  inches  from  the  wall  —  room 
enough  for  a  bird,  but  no  bird  there.  In  a 
flash  he  was  at  the  other  side,  peeping  there 
also.  Still  finding  no  bird  he  walked  out  in 
front  and  again  began  a  battle  with  his  own 
image.  He  did  not  give  it  up  until  he  caught 
a  faint  hiss  from  outside,  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  and  saw  the  other  bird  upon  the 
sill.  Then  he  hesitated  a  minute,  as  though 
uncertain  which  to  fight,  but  at  last  smoothed 
himself,  turned  his  head  aside,  and  twittered 
amicably  to  the  bird  in  the  glass,  as  who  should 
say  :  u  We  are  friends  !  Certainly  !  Come 
and  let  us  two  finish  this  other  impertinent 
fellow  !  " 

The  bird  in  the  glass  also  turned  his  head 
and  twittered  amicably.  The  bird  outside 
gave  his  tail  a  diplomatic  flirt.  It  was  an- 
swered as  diplomatically.  In  a  flash  the  cap- 
tive was  at  the  window,  ruffling  and  scowling 
furiously  at  the  bird  outside.  But  he  kept 
looking  over  his  shoulder,  for  the  other  bird, 
until  it  grew  so  late  his  real  enemy  flew  ofF 
to  roost.  Then  with  a  louder  scowl,  he  flew 
up  again  on  the  secretary,  fidgeted  there  a  min- 
ute, spread  his  wings  and  made  a  hopping 


202  Next  to  the  Ground 

flight  toward  the  cage.  Patsy  had  propped 
open  the  door  and  hung  a  bit  of  tempting 
green  inside.  Slowly,  with  much  glancing 
about,  and  turning  of  the  head,  the  bird  hopped 
toward  it.  At  the  door  he  stopped,  looked 
inside,  then  half  drew  back.  But  the  next 
breath  he  flew  boldly  upon  a  perch  of  it,  and 
made  no  motion  to  fly  out  when  he  saw  Patsy 
coming  to  shut  him  in.  He  always  showed 
her  afterward  a  distant  friendliness,  but  never 
permitted  the  least  familiarity,  though  she 
kept  him  until  the  trees  bloomed  in  the  or- 
chard, and  she  found  him  singing  love  to  a 
small  meek-looking  browny-red  creature,  who 
fluttered  anxiously  around  his  cage. 

Somehow  Joe  never  found  a  jay  bird  in  his 
traps.  Jays  were  plenty  and  hungry  and 
thievish  no  end.  Joe  was  sure  they  ate  at 
least  half  his  bait,  as  he  was.  also  sure  they 
sprung  the  triggers  of  the  traps  pretty  often  in 
the  eating.  Naturally  there  was  a  reason  for 
not  finding  them.  The  reason  lived  and 
moved  and  answered  to  the  name  of  Dan. 
Dan  stole  the  jays,  not  because  he  loved  them, 
but  because  he  hated  and  feared  them.  He 
believed  superstitiously,  you  see,  that  no  jay 
was  ever  visible  of  a  Friday.  They  spent  all 
the  Fridays  in  carrying  sticks  to  the  devil  — 
sticks  with  which  to  kindle  extra  hot  fires 
under  all  the  bad  black  people  j  further,  that 


The  Big  Snow  203 

it  was  the  worst  sort  of  bad  luck  to  have  a  jay 
fly  over  your  head,  or  in  and  out  of  your  stable. 
Bad  luck  also  haunted  whoever  cut  down  a  tree 
with  a  jay's  nest  in  it,  unless  the  cutter  took 
the  precaution  first  to  knock  down  the  nest 
by  throwing  stones,  and,  if  possible,  also  to 
kill  or  cripple  the  nest-builders. 

Joe  thought  there  was  something  to  be  said 
for  the  jays.  All  he  had  ever  shot  had  their 
crops  full  of  slugs,  weed  seed,  and  insect  eggs. 
He  knew  the  jays  were  not  patterns  of  all  the 
feathered  virtues,  but  they  were  good  to  look 
at,  flashing  in  and  out  like  bits  of  winged  sky. 
So  he  had  made  a  slatted  cover  for  an  empty 
hogshead  in  the  granary,  and  had  meant  to 
keep  the  jays  in  it,  not  so  much  to  save  them 
—  they  were  as  hardy  as  they  were  audacious, 
as  to  see  what  they  would  do  by  way  of  pass- 
ing their  time  of  captivity.  He  had  seen  them 
by  half  dozens  skylarking  and  chasing  each 
other  in  the  bare  branches  of  an  oak.  They 
were  bold  fellows,  bolder  even  than  the  red- 
birds,  nipping  and  pecking  lustily  at  whatever 
tried  to  seize  them.  They  fought  almost 
constantly  with  the  woodpeckers  after  cold 
v/eather  set  in.  He  thought  that  was  be- 
cause they  found,  and  stole,  the  woodpeck- 
ers' hoarded  acorns.  Going  through  the 
woods,  he  had  grabbled  acorns  from  under 
the  snow,  thinking  to  fling  them  in  the  hogs- 


2O4  Next  to  the  Ground 

head,  and  find  out  if  the  jays  would  really  eat 
them. 

Still,  if  Dan  did  wring  their  necks,  it  was 
no  great  matter.  They  were  plagues  to  the 
singing  birds,  robbing  their  nests  of  both  eggs 
and  young.  Joe  was  tempted  to  do  a  little 
neck-wringing  on  his  own  account  when  he 
found  doves  and  field-larks  in  the  traps.  They 
were  pretty  and  appealingly  helpless  —  but 
they  also  made  the  finest  sort  of  bird-pies. 
Notwithstanding,  conscience  prevailed  over 
appetite.  Conscience  had  an  active  ally  in 
Patsy.  She  said  she  would  n't  take  advantage 
of  a  hungry  bird  to  eat  it  —  she  left  that  sort 
of  thing  to  the  Shack  gang. 

Snowbirds  fed  round  about  the  house  in 
clouds.  Old  man  Shack,  coming  to  borrow 
a  peck  of  meal,  tried  his  best  to  persuade  Patsy 
into  having  a  dead-fall.  "  Children  't  home 
had  one,"  he  said,  "  an'  it  wus  jest  next  door 
ter  a  merikle  how  many  er  them  thar  little  fat 
gray  rascals  they  did  ketch.  Why  they  had 
as  many  as  half  a  dozen  hangin'  at  the  eend 
o'  strings,  an*  roastin'  before  the  fire,  all  the 
time,  'tween  daylight  an'  dark.  No,  a  snow- 
bird ra'alely  wa'nt  no  more'n  a  mouthful,  but 
roasted  that-a-way,  with  er  walnut  meat  fer 
stuffin',  hit  was  a  mouthful  worth  while. 
Dead-fall!  Makin'  hit  wa'n't  no  work  at  all. 
Jest  set  er  trigger  under  one  aidge  o'  er  long 


The  Big  Snow  205 

wide  plank,  scrape  off  the  snow  under  the 
plank,  bait  the  ground  well,  tie  er  rope  ter  the 
trigger,  an'  carry  the  rope  inside  —  thar  you 
wus  !  All  you  had  ter  do  wus  watch.  When 
the  snowbirds  crope  under  the  plank,  er  flew 
under  the  plank  —  zip!  you  pulled  the  rope 
—  plank  fell  down  —  an*  every  bird  hit  ketched 
went  right  ter  kingdom-come.  Some  flew 
away,  of  co'se,  when  the  plank  lit  down,  but 
hit  ketched  enough  —  except  when  thar  wus 
sech  er  cussed  heap  er  children  ter  eat  as  he 
happened  ter  wrastle  with.  Hit  warn't  jest  no 
sort  o'  use  tryin'  ter  fill  'em  up  on  nothin'  — 
not  eben  rabbits,  ef  the  dogs  an'  the  boys  had 
ketched  sech  er  God's  plenty  on  'em." 

Snow  time  has  nowhere  a  cheerier  sight  or 
sound  than  the  wee  bit  of  gray  fluff,  winging 
and  twittering  about,  hopping  'daintily  on  one 
foot,  pecking,  preening  his  smart  white  waist- 
coat, or  huddling  cosily  with  his  fellows,  asleep 
in  the  shelter  of  evergreen  boughs.  Such  shel- 
ter was  plenty  at  White  Oaks.  There  was  an 
overgrown  cedar  hedge  between  the  back  yard 
and  the  front.  Some  trees  in  it  had  shot  up 
thirty  feet.  They  were  sharply  conical  and 
so  thickly  branched  the  snow  weighing  down 
one  branch  upon  another  had  transformed 
the  whole  hedge  into  a  real  Sierra  Nevada — 
which  is  Spanish  for  "the  saw-tooth  range  of 
snow."  Birds  flying  in  and  out  rifted  the  snowy 


206  Next  to  the  Ground 

sides, and  left  deep  dark  caves  in  them,but,until 
the  thaw  began,  all  about  the  foot  of  the  sierra 
there  were  foothills  of  swelling,,  gently  rounded 
drifts,  burying  and  staying  the  tips  of  the 
bended  boughs.  But  for  such  staying  the 
boughs  would  soon  have  shaken  down  some 
part  of  their  snow  blanket  —  and  then  the 
snowbirds  and  all  the  other  birds  would  have 
been  in  very  much  worse  case.  The  snow- 
tent  kept  off  the  bitter  wind ;  further  there 
were  cedar  berries  available  here  and  there 
about  the  twigs.  It  was  no  wonder  birds  of 
many  sorts  crowded  in  —  redbirds,  bluebirds, 
garden  and  swamp  sparrows,  sap-suckers,  an 
obstinate  pair  of  mockers  which  had  refused 
to  migrate,  jays,  and  even  an  occasional  shy 
field-lark. 

Each  and  several  they  hopped  about  the 
doors,  some  fearlessly,  others  flying  if  even 
the  wind  made  a  wavering  shadow.  Patsy 
laid  planks  across  the  rails,  at  the  corner  of  the 
piazza,  and  strewed  the  planks  with  seed  and 
crumbs,  and  tiny  bits  of  fat  meat.  In  reward 
she  was  able  to  watch  the  birds  feeding,  herself 
standing  snug  inside  the  window.  Some  of 
the  shyest  chose  rather  to  feed  with  the  fowls. 
Joe  and  Dan  had  had  a  great  time,  getting 
the  turkeys  down  from  their  perch  in  a  tall 
oak.  One  pert  young  gobbler  sailed  down 
at  the  usual  time,  stuck  in  a  drift,  then  with 


The  Big  Snow  207 

much  loud  gobbling,  and  many  floundering 
leaps,  gained  the  back  steps,  and  stood  there, 
telling  the  flock  in  most  emphatic  turkey  talk 
they  had  better  not  try  it  —  it  was  easier  and 
ever  so  much  more  dignified  to  starve  where 
they  were. 

That  is  the  wild  turkey's  way.  In  a  deep 
snow  they  keep  to  the  roost  for  days  —  until 
the  snow  either  melts,  settles,  or  crusts  over 
hard  enough  to  bear  their  weight.  But  instinct 
has  warned  them  to  feed  heavily,  and  upon 
things  of  staying  quality,  while  snow  is  fall- 
ing. Commonly  they  go  to  roost  with  crops 
almost  bursting,  they  are  so  full  of  acorns, 
beechnuts,  dried  peas,  or  corn.  Indeed,  to  find 
wild  turkeys  feeding  in  a  deserted  corn-field, 
searching  it  through  and  through  for  down  ears 
missed  in  gathering,  or  overlooked  nubbins, 
is  about  the  surest  sign  of  either  deep  snow, 
or  a  savage  freeze. 

Corn  is  heating  —  full  of  starch  and  fats. 
Green  or  dry,  wild  turkeys  devour  it  greedily. 
They  are  either  not  wise  enough,  or  not  bold 
enough  to  tear  off  the  green  husk,  but  they 
follow  in  the  squirrel's  wake,  and  finish  ears 
he  has  partly  plundered.  Summer  corn  lands 
have  another  charm  for  them.  After  the  last 
ploughing,  when  the  tasselling  stalks  make  a 
thick  green  jungle  with  light  earth  at  foot, 
wild  turkeys  go  in  to  scratch,  wallow,  dust 


208  Next  to  the  Ground 

themselves  in  the  powder-dry  earth,  and  feed 
on  the  grasshoppers,  beetles,  butterflies,  and 
all  the  host  of  creeping  things  that  are  the  corn 
land's  rabble  guests.  Turkeys,  wild  or  tame, 
feed  gluttonously,  gulping  down  a  worm  yet 
wiggling,  an  insect  wings  and  all,  except  when 
they  are  carrying  young.  Then  they  practise, 
and  teach  to  the  broods,  the  art  of  killing 
before  eating,  also  of  pecking  their  prey  and 
beating  it  against  earth  until  it  is  freed  of 
wings,  legs,  and  long  stiff  feelers.  Mother 
turkeys  peck  up  a  grasshopper  into  a  flat 
mangled  mass  before  they  let  their  young  seize 
upon  it  and  pull  it  apart.  Sometimes  after  the 
mother  has  pecked  a  dozen  insects  thus  for 
her  brood,  she  slips  stealthily  away  from  the 
brood,  runs  after  other  insects,  and  swallows 
them  whole  the  instant  they  are  in  her  beak. 
There  were  several  gangs  of  wild  turkeys 
in  the  flat-woods,  but  Joe  did  not  hunt  them 
in  the  snow.  Instead  he  hunted  rabbits. 
Indeed  everybody  hunted  rabbits.  Every  cabin 
on  the  place  or  round  about  it,  had  its  big  bunch 
of  cottontails  swung  high  on  the  outer  walls. 
There  was  broiled  rabbit,  and  fried,  and 
smothered,  for  everybody.  As  to  rabbit- 
skins,  a  regiment  of  Baby  Buntings  could  have 
been  wrapped  in  them  until  they  looked  like 
little  Esquimaux.  Killing  rabbits,  indeed,  was 
partly  a  sport,  but  more  nearly  a  duty.  Major 


The  Big  Snow  209 

Baker  cheerfully  furnished  powder  and  shot  — 
it  was  the  cheapest  way  of  saving  his  young 
trees  in  the  orchard.  Notwithstanding,  he  did 
not  trust  wholly  to  it.  The  day  after  the  snow, 
he  had  all  the  trunks  rubbed  for  three  feet  up, 
either  with  fresh  bloody  fat,  or  the  skins  and 
entrails  of  the  first  rabbits  slaughtered. 

Brer  Rabbit  looks  a  pattern  of  innocence, 
but  like  many  another  pattern  person,  belies 
his  looks.  He  is  really  a  standing  menace  to 
the  prosperity  of  the  farm  lands.  The  menace 
lies  in  his  amazing  faculty  of  multiplying  him- 
self by  a  million  in  a  very  little  while.  Under 
favoring  conditions  rabbits  litter  many  times 
in  a  year.  Litters  run  from  three  to  six  in 
number,  and  the  young  are  full-grown  at  six 
months  old.  Figure  a  bit  and  you  will  under- 
stand how  a  homesick  settler's  chance  turning 
loose  of  half  a  dozen  rabbits,  less  than  fifty 
years  back,  has  brought  about  Australia's  rab- 
bit plague,  whose  damage  must  be  reckoned 
in  the  hundred  millions.  Like  the  locusts 
of  Egypt,  rabbits  devour  every  green  thing  — 
unless  the  green  thing  has  a  protective  animal 
taint.  Then  even  starvation  will  not  make 
them  touch  the  tainted  stuff  —  especially  if 
the  taint  comes  from  their  own  flesh. 

That  is  lucky  for  the  orchards  and  the 
gardens.  Brer  Rabbit  dearly  loves  the  smooth 
bark  of  young  apple  trees,  and  upon  a  pinch 


2io  Next  to  the  Ground 

will  also  girdle  young  peach  trees.  In  the 
garden  he  eats  down  green  peas,  young  beet 
tops,  beans,  sweet-potato  slips,  cabbage  plants. 
Fluttering  white  rags,  scraps  of  bright  tin 
strewed  on  the  ground,  or  bottles  tipped  to- 
gether so  they  will  roll  at  a  touch,  all  serve 
to  frighten  him  away,  especially  in  moon- 
shine. But  the  safe  and  sure  preventive  of 
his  night  ravaging,  is  to  sprinkle  the  garden 
plot  liberally  roundabout  with  water  in  which 
a  freshly  killed  rabbit  has  been  torn  to  pieces. 
Until  rain  falls  he  will  no  more  cross  a  strip 
of  ground  so  sprinkled  than  a  snake  will 
crawl  over  a  horsehair  rope.  Rain  washes 
the  scent  away,  so  after  it  there  needs  must 
be  more  sprinkling. 

Brer  Rabbit  fights  only  one  animal  —  his 
cousin-german,  almost  his  counterpart,  the 
hare.  To  the  casual  eye  the  animals  are 
much  the  same,  though  science  distinguishes 
between  them.  Both  have  the  cleft  upper 
lip,  also  the  thick  flocculent  down  under- 
neath the  hair  of  the  coat,  which  makes  the 
game  books  class  them  flock,  as  opposed  to 
feather  —  which  includes  pheasants,  partridges, 
quails,  grouse  and  black  cock,  indeed  the 
whole  range  of  land-feeding  game  birds. 
Flock  —  the  thick  underdown  —  comes  away 
easily.  Mother-rabbits  strip  their  breasts  of 
it  to  line  their  nests.  The  nest  is  dug  shal- 


The  Big  Snow  2 1  > 

lowly  in  light  earth.  Sometimes  it  is  a  mole- 
run  very  much  enlarged.  Rabbit-litters  are 
blind  at  first,  and  have  no  use  of  their  legs, 
though  they  will  roll  clumsily  over  and  begin 
nuzzling  at  the  touch  of  anything  warm  —  a 
hand,  a  cheek,  or  even  the  warm  side  of  a 
basket.  They  breathe  very  slowly  and  look 
more  like  pinches  of  whitey-brown  hair  than 
living  creatures.  The  birth-coat  is  scant  and 
almost  rough  to  the  touch.  Down  grows  as 
they  get  their  eyes  open.  But  before  they 
can  walk  they  have  the  curious  rabbit  power 
to  close  at  will  the  external  ear. 

A  baby  rabbit  creeping  shyly  out  for  his 
first  meal  of  buds  and  grass  is  the  quaintest, 
daintiest  figure  of  all  the  fields,  so  tiny  he  can 
snuggle  down  in  your  palm,  soft  all  over  as 
a  fluff  of  thistle  down,  moving  uncertainly 
with  a  slow,  velvet- footed  amble,  yet  never  in 
a  straight  line.  Thus  early  he  knows  that 
his  track  must  be  a  maze  —  also  that  he  must 
go  home  to  the  nest  along  the  way  he  came. 
And  there  is  where  the  exquisite  rabbit-nose 
comes  in.  Coming  and  going  thus,  and 
breaking  up  the  trail  now  and  then  with  a 
leap,  he  lessens  the  danger  of  being  followed 
and  caught  much  more  than  half. 

Like  the  other  wild  things,  Brer  Rabbit 
is  instinctively  ware  of  deep  snow.  He  feeds 
mightily  when  the  fall  begins,  then  scutters 


212  Next  to  the  Ground 

away  to  his  form  in  the  grass  or  the  sedge, 
crouches  there,  sinks  his  head  well  between 
his  shoulders,  and  lets  the  falling  snow  wall 
him  in.  As  the  wall  grows  high  and  higher, 
he  surges  back  and  forth  against  it,  still 
crouching,  and  thus  shapes  for  himself  a 
snow  chamber  something  bigger  than  him- 
self. When  the  wall  grows  higher  than  his 
head,  he  arches  his  back  to  the  utmost  and 
presses  up  against  it.  Thus  even  when  the 
fall  is  very  heavy  he  keeps  himself  from  being 
wholly  shut  in.  His  warm  breath  fills  the 
chamber,  and  rises  in  tiny  spirals  through  the 
skylight  of  it,  thus  betraying  his  refuge  to 
the  folk  who  come  hunting. 

If  they  are  but  pot-hunters  with  no  drop 
of  sporting  blood,  they  come  without  dog  or 
gun,  and,  once  the  breathing  hole  is  spied, 
fall  flat  upon  it,  seize  the  rabbit,  spring  up, 
swing  him  around  the  head  holding  him  by 
his  hind  feet,  and  knock  out  his  brains 
against  the  nearest  stump  or  fence  or  tree. 
Sometimes  Brer  Rabbit  evades  the  clutching 
hand,  and  bursts  up  through  the  snow,  wild- 
eyed  and  panting,  to  run  away  in  prodigious 
long  leaps.  The  catcher's  comrades  have 
something  to  say  about  that.  Armed  with 
longish  stout  sticks  they  stand  round  about, 
and  commonly  knock  over  Brer  Rabbit  at 
the  second  bound.  Even  if  he  escapes  the 


The  Big  Snow  213 

stick  men  his  race  is  not  long.  He  can  make 
ten-foot  jumps  for  a  little  while,  but  cannot 
keep  doing  it  with  deep  snow  under  foot. 

When  the  snow  crusts  over,  then  there  is 
sport  indeed.  The  hunters  go  out  with  all 
the  little  dogs  available.  Then  truly  Tray, 
Blanche,  and  Sweetheart  come  to  their  own. 
They  wear  collars,  and  are  held  back  with 
stout  strings  until  the  rabbit  has  been  routed 
out,  and  has  got  thirty  yards  away.  So  much 
remains  in  Tennessee  wood-craft  of  the  law, 
otherwise  the  start,  allowed  by  the  art  of 
venery,  to  all  hunted  things.  Brer  Rabbit 
well  away,  and  going  like  a  shadow  over  the 
snow-crust,  the  dogs  are  slipped,  and  go  after 
him,  in  howling,  dancing  chorus,  sometimes 
so  eager  they  trip  over  themselves.  Only 
light  dogs  can  run  thus  —  fices,  terriers,  and 
cross-bred  mongrel  beagles.  Wrong,  Right, 
Watch,  High-Low,  Music,  and  Damsel,  all 
had  to  be  left  at  home,  lest  they  break  through 
the  crust  and  lame  themselves  on  the  sharp 
edges.  Patsy  was  a  person  of  consequence, 
to  be  deferred  to  and  conciliated.  Her  ter- 
rier Trix,  and  Button,  who  was  nothing  much 
but  plain  little  dog,  were  the  best  rabbit- 
runners  on  the  plantation. 

Sometimes  the  little  dogs  ran  down  Brer 
Rabbit  in  fair  open  field.  Oftener  by  dodg- 
ing and  doubling,  Brer  Rabbit  got  to  a  thicket 


214  Next  to  the  Ground 

or  a  hollow  log,  and  was  pulled  out  or  smoked 
out.  After  a  day  or  two,  when  paths  in  plenty 
had  been  broken  through  the  fields  so  Brer 
Rabbit  ran  about  freely,  shooting  began.  The 
moon  changed  just  then,  and  every  black 
hunter  cut  off  the  left  hind  foot  of  the  first 
rabbit  he  shot  after  the  moon  ran  dark.  He 
was  careful  to  tell  nobody,  nor  to  let  anybody 
see  him  do  it.  But  all  understood  that  the 
left  hind  feet  were  lucky  charms  good  until 
next  new  year. 

Belief  in  the  rabbit  foot's  magic  virtues  is 
an  old  English  superstition,  engrafted,  no 
doubt,  by  early  immigrant  owners  upon  the 
slave  mind.  Pepys  in  his  diary  tells  of  own- 
ing a  rabbit's  foot,  and  of  his  joy  at  finding 
out  that  its  lack  of  power  arose  from  the  fact 
that  it  had  but  a  single  joint.  One  of  his  fine 
gentleman  acquaintances  owned  a  foot  with 
two  joints,  and  by  the  bare  handling  of  it,  Mr. 
Pepys  found  his  rheumatism  very  much  bet- 
tered. A  little  later,  when  he  had  duly  sup- 
plied himself  with  the  two-jointed  rabbit's 
foot,  he  writes  that  he  was  never  so  well  or 
so  prosperous  in  his  life,  u  and  do  lay  it  all  to 
the  workings  of  a  proper  foot."  Books  of 
necromancy  also  give  directions  for  cutting  the 
foot  and  curing  it  so  as  to  enhance  its  magic 
strength.  A  foot  cut  from  a  live  rabbit,  and 
the  rabbit  allowed  afterward  to  hop  away,  was 


The  Big  Snow  215 

accounted  peculiarly  powerful,  but  dangerous 
in  that  if  the  rabbit  died  of  the  hurt,  his  fam- 
iliar spirit  would  be  apt  to  visit  the  torture  the 
poor  creature  had  suffered  upon  the  torturer. 
Curing,  well  packed  in  herbs,  over  the  smoke 
from  green  tansy  stalks,  was  also  essential. 
But  if  the  curer  talked  with  a  red-haired 
woman,  met  a  brindled  cow  in  the  road,  or 
found  a  black  cat  following  him,  he  was  ad- 
vised to  throw  away  the  rabbit's  foot,  or,  better 
still,  bury  it,  give  himself  a  sulphur  purge,  and 
not  even  think  of  magic  until  a  moon  later. 

The  big  snow  went  as  it  came.  White 
Oaks  awoke  to  find  the  wind  sitting  south, 
the  sky  hazily  overcast,  and  sluices  running 
wherever  there  was  a  sloping  track.  By  noon 
the  ground  began  to  peep  out  on  the  hillsides, 
by  night  it  was  raining,  a  warm  flood.  Next 
day,  only  remnant  ragged  drift-blotches,  and 
the  sodden  green  of  the  wheat  fields  remained 
to  tell  the  tale  of  the  snow. 


Clearing 


Chapter    X 


HAT  with  fences,  firewood, 
outbuildings,  and  plant- 
beds,  Major  Baker  had  to 
clear  more  or  less  land 
each  season.  But  it  was 
only  now  and  again  he 
had  a  big  new  ground, 
such  as  the  one  which  ran  out  into  the  old 
pigeon-roost.  The  pigeon-roost  was  part  of 
his  late  purchase,  lying  upon  the  edge  of  it 
away  from  the  flat-woods.  That  is  to  say, 
along  the  hills  bounding  the  creek  valley,  lower 
down  than  White  Oaks  itself.  The  soil 
was  quick  and  lively,  especially  upon  the 
benches.  The  hills  were  high,  and  sloped 
gradually  half  way  down,  then  fell  in  a  sharp 
ramp  to  broad  almost  level  spaces,  at  whose 
outer  edges  the  slopes  began  anew. 

The  hills  had  been  well-timbered  —  before 
the  pigeons  came.  A  hurricane  could  hardly 
have  served  the  trees  worse.  Looking  the 


22O  Next  to  the  Ground 

ground  over  thirty  years  after  the  last  wing 
had  fluttered  away,  Joe  could  realize  in  large 
measure  all  his  father  told  him.  The  first 
pigeons,  said  the  Major,  came  always  early  in 
October,  flying  in,  in  wide  wavering  lines,  two 
or  three  birds  deep,  exactly  as  the  feeble  rem- 
nant of  them  now  flew  over  each  autumn. 
Those '  first  birds  also  flew  over  or  away. 
They  were  here  to-day,  to-morrow  even,  and 
gone  the  day  after.  Everybody  knew,  though, 
that  they  were  harbingers  of  the  flocks  —  sent, 
it  might  be,  to  spy  out  the  land. 

The  flocks  came  ten  days  later.  They 
flew  in  clouds,  darkening  the  whole  heavens 
for  hours  at  a  time,  and  filling  the  world  with 
the  rushing  noise  of  wings.  A  single  flock 
was  estimated  to  be  five  miles  broad,  forty 
miles  long,  and  a  mile  deep  from  top  to  bot- 
tom.* Between  flocks  there  was  a  little  clear 
space.  The  sky  showed  through  it  as  through 
a  rift  in  thick  clouds.  The  rifts  proved  that 
in  flight,  the  pigeons  kept  always  to  the  broad 
wavering  formation.  Though  now  and  then 
a  line  bellied  or  sank,  the  head  of  one  flock 
never  stretched  over  into  the  tail  of  the  flock 
ahead.  They  did  not  sail  as  do  birds  of  prey 
—  hawks,  vultures,  eagles  —  nor  flap  their 
wings  like  wild  fowl.  Instead,  their  wings 
had  a  quick  convulsive  motion,  half  flutter, 
*  Wilson's  estimate. 


Clearing  221 

half  shudder.  Notwithstanding,  they  were 
swifter  than  the  wind  and  as  tireless.  The 
feeding  grounds  lay  hundreds  of  miles  away, 
yet  the  flocks  went  out  to  them  at  morning 
and  came  back  from  them  at  night. 

The  going  was  like  the  moving  of  an  army. 
Flock  after  flock  rose  separately,  poised  itself 
and  skimmed  away,  one  flock  always  waiting 
until  another  was  clear  of  the  roost.  Males 
and  females  flew  and  roosted  apart.  Male 
flocks  flew  highest  in  the  air.  There  were 
feeding  grounds  both  sides  of  the  roost.  The 
flocks  flew  north  or  south  according  to  the  wind, 
choosing  always  to  go  as  near  down  wind  as 
they  could.  Thus  it  happened  people  living 
north  or  south  of  the  roost  often  did  not  see  a 
flying  pigeon  for  days  —  then  all  at  once  found 
the  sky  dark  and  thick  with  them,  coming  or 
going,  from  the  earliest  dawn  to  long  after 
dark.  A  flock  never  came  home  until  it  was 
full  fed  —  consequently  those  going  out  late, 
or  lighting  upon  ground  already  stripped,  some- 
times flew  into  the  roost  about  midnight.  Some 
few  hundred  sluggard  stragglers,  and  lame  or 
wounded  birds,  fed  in  the  woods  and  fields 
close  about  the  roost,  going  out  in  half  dozens, 
but  flying  even  then  in  the  common  wavering 
line. 

At  night  the  pigeon-roost  was  a  sight  to  see. 
It  stretched  several  miles  —  all  along  the  hills 


222  Next  to  the  Ground 

indeed,  until  the  creek  ran  into  the  mill  stream. 
The  trees  were  tall  —  beeches,  poplars,  red 
and  Spanish  oaks,  white  oaks,  hickories,  tulip 
poplars  and  occasional  maples.  They  were 
big  also,  with  sturdy  branches  spreading  so  they 
locked  well  together.  But  the  sturdiness  availed 
nothing  against  the  weight  of  the  massed 
pigeons.  The  birds  settled  in  clouds,  as  thick 
as  they  could  stick,  wherever  they  found  a  foot- 
hold. Over-loaded  boughs  broke  under  them 
all  night  long.  People  came  from  far  and  near 
- —  at  first  to  shoot,  later  simply  to  pick  up  the 
birds  knocked  down  with  long  poles  or  stunned 
by  the  falling  boughs.  The  ground  was 
covered  with  pigeon  guano,  feathers,  and  dead 
birds,  although  hogs  ranged  underneath  the 
trees,  and  ate  fat  pigeons  until  even  they  could 
eat  no  more. 

One  single  shot  up  amid  the  laden  branches 
brought  down  half  a  cart  load  of  pigeons.  The 
man  who  dared  to  move  about  the  roost  with 
a  lighted  lantern  was  swamped,  almost  crushed 
indeed  by  the  weight  of  birds  flying  to  the  light. 
Pigeon-getters — hunters  they  could  not  be 
called — went  in  bands.  One  carried  the  light, 
the  rest  walked  each  side  and  knocked  down 
the  birds  as  they  flew.  Soon  the  smell  became 
something  indescribable,  —  even  stronger  and 
more  reeking  than  the  odor  of  genuine  Peruvian 
guano.  The  pigeons  themselves  fled  from  it 


Clearing     .  223 

at  the  first  hint  of  spring.  Toward  the  end 
of  March  they  flew  away  to  their  breeding- 
place,  among  some  river  hills  lying  thirty  miles 
to  north. 

That  put  them  in  Kentucky  —  White  Oaks 
lies  in  a  border  county.  The  nesting-place 
was,  in  soil  and  timber,  a  counterpart  of  the 
roost.  But  though  the  pigeons  began  leaving 
the  roost,  which  was  less  than  an  hour's  flight 
away,  in  late  March,  they  got  to  the  breeding- 
place  around  the  tenth  of  April.  Where  they 
had  dawdled  nobody  ever  found  out.  Once 
settled,  nesting  went  on  apace.  The  nests  were 
mere  huddles  of  sticks,  like  those  of  the  wood 
dove,  with  no  architecture,  lining,  nor  much 
of  anything  else.  Each  nest  had  two  eggs  in 
it.  Sometimes  there  were  as  many  as  a  thou- 
sand in  one  tree.  Males  and  females  took 
turns  in  brooding,  also  in  feeding  the  young. 
The  feeding  was  with  "  pigeon's  milk  "  as  in 
the  case  of  tame  pigeons.  Pigeon's  milk,  be 
it  understood,  is  a  whitish  creamy  stuff  secreted 
in  the  crops  of  the  parent  birds  from  partly 
digested  food,  and  forced  into  the  open  mouths 
of  their  young.  The  young  thrive  magically 
upon  it.  The  wild  pigeon  squabs  were  so  fat, 
people  knocked  them  down  in  loads,  and  ren- 
dered the  fat  to  use  for  butter  or,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  wax  and  tallow,  for  candle-making. 

The  pigeons  reared  two  broods,  or  even  three 


224  Next  to  the  Ground 

if  the  first  nest  came  to  grief.  Yet  they  left 
the  nesting-place  about  the  last  of  May,  flying 
away  straight  north,  and  leaving  the  trees  of 
it  stripped,  broken,  dying,  worse  used,  if  pos- 
sible, than  the  timber  of  the  roost.  The  young 
went  in  flocks  by  themselves,  flying  just  below 
the  tops  of  the  trees,  the  hen  pigeons  flew  just 
above  the  tree-tops,  and  the  cocks  highest  of 
all  —  so  high  indeed  that  sometimes  they  were 
out  of  sight.  Major  Baker  had  gone  several 
times  to  see  the  nesting-place,  also  to  watch 
the  flocks  setting  out,  as  it  was  popularly  be- 
lieved, for  the  North  Pole.  Nobody  in  close 
neighborhood  regretted  their  going.  Regret 
came  in  later  falls,  when  the  flocks  got  fewer 
and  smaller,  then,  all  at  once,  did  not  come  at 
all. 

Word  comes  that  the  wild  pigeons,  flying 
down  across  Mexico,  have  found  asylum  in 
the  wilds  of  South  America.  Whether  the 
word  be  true  or  false,  their  migration  is  a 
mystery,  only  partly  explicable  by  the  narrow- 
ing of  their  feeding-grounds.  They  live 
largely  upon  beech  mast,  wild  rice,  wild  oats, 
and  the  seed  of  other  coarse  grasses  growing 
along  natural  meadows.  They  also  eat  post- 
oak  mast,  hazel  nuts,  dried  grapes,  and  wild 
peas,  foraging  at  a  pinch  in  winter  wheat 
fields,  and  among  standing  cornstalks.  Much 
clearing  has  turned  their  favorite  ranges,  the 


Clearing  225 

beechlands  of  the  Ohio,  Tennessee,  and  Cum- 
berland River  valleys,  into  cultivated  fields. 
Still,  the  clearing  was  not  done  in  a  wink  — 
and  it  was  thus  the  birds  vanished,  as  a  fea- 
ture of  the  year.  Every  fall,  a  close  watcher 
sees  flocks  of  a  hundred  or  two,  flurry  in  the 
well-known  wavering  line  across  a  morning 
or  evening  sky. 

A  pigeon  roost  untouched  bears  to  this  day 
the  mark  of  the  birds.  Two  years  of  roost- 
ing killed  all  the  big  trees.  Guano  of  any 
kind  thickly  applied  kills  every  sort  of  vege- 
tation. Beside  this  embarrassment  of  soil- 
riches,  the  trees  had  lost  so  many  limbs,  they 
had  nowhere  to  bud  and  put  out  saving  leaves. 
Trees  forking  a  little  way  up  had  been  riven 
in  two  by  the  weight  of  the  pigeon  mass. 
Undergrowth  had  been  killed,  or  trampled 
down.  Sometimes  even  fire  had  added  to 
the  desolation.  A  lantern  overset  found  plenty 
of  inflammable  stuff  to  start  a  lively  burn- 
ing. Thunderstorms  —  pocket  cyclones  — 
are  plenty  in  Tennessee,  particularly  along 
the  creek  and  river  valleys.  They  soon  blew 
down  the  dead  trees  or  twisted  them  off  two 
yards  above  ground  and  flung  the  trunks  cross- 
and-pile  among  the  sickly,  struggling  saplings 
which  alone  survived.  The  saplings  had  not 
been  branchy  enough  to  serve  as  roosts,  when 
there  were  big  trees  handy. 


226  Next  to  the  Ground 

Time,  unhasting,  unresting,  changes  all  that 
—  and  always  for  the  better.  Sun,  wind,  and 
rain  are  alchemists,  always  working  to  repair 
nature's  hurts.  When  they  have  done  their 
appointed  work,  leaching  out,  mixing  through, 
giving  back  some  part  to  the  air,  some  other 
part  to  the  clay,  a  pigeon-roost  becomes  the 
richest  of  all  virgin  soil.  The  saplings  grow 
magically  into  trees,  not  tall  and  stately  like 
the  dead  trees,  but  gnarled  and  sturdily  spread- 
ing. In  between,  the  quick  earth  laughs  into 
matted  jungle  —  thicker,  thornier,  than  even 
the  jungle  which  springs  up  in  a  hurricane 
tract  to  feed  upon  the  decaying  trunks  of  the 
windfalls.  The  jungle  is  starred  all  through 
its  green  gloom  with  the  rarest  and  richest  of 
the  wild  flowers.  Lady-slippers  grow  rank 
there,  so  do  the  fairy  white  plumes  of  rattle- 
weed,  and  the  constellations  of  whiter  August 
lilies.  Cross-vine  runs  riot,  creeping  and 
climbing  to  reach  the  sunlight,  clinging  fast 
with  clutching  roots  from  each  joint  of  the 
stalk,  then  flinging  down  cataracts  of  flame- 
hued  blossoms  and  mottled  waxen  leaves. 
Bindweed  also  stars  the  thickets  all  over. 
There  are  never  humblebees  enough  to  sip  all 
its  purple-spotted  trumpets.  Scarlet  trumpet- 
flower  grows  there,  too,  so  does  the  wild 
buckwheat  in  the  edges  of  sunny  spaces. 
And  wherever  a  dead  trunk  stands  fast,  or  a 


Clearing  227 

walnut  grows,  the  Virginia  creeper  mantles  it 
from  root  to  tip,  in  a  rippling  vesture  of  liv- 
ing green.  In  September  when  the  walnut 
turns  yellow,  and  the  creeper  bright  crimson, 
a  tree  so  clothed  looks  to  have  come  from 
fairyland.  All  outside  there  is  the  flittery 
yellow  ;  all  underneath,  a  spectral  tree-skeleton 
of  glowing  crimson. 

Something  else  glowed  there,  even  more 
eerily,  upon  damp  nights  of  summer  and  fall. 
The  dead  trees  had  turned  to  fox-fire.  Fox- 
fire is  the  pale,  peculiar  phosphorescence 
evolved  from  slowly  rotting  wood.  It  showed 
in  lines  and  blurs  and  blotches  all  under  the 
thickets,  where  a  tree-trunk  lay  half  imbedded 
in  the  black  soil.  If  sunshine  was  let  in  upon 
the  mouldering  wood,  it  dried  to  a  brown 
crumbling  tinder,  which  the  countryside  folk 
called  spunk,  or  punk.  True  Tennessee  punk 
is  a  dried  toadstool,  but  the  brown  wood  had 
most  of  its  properties,  catching  fire  if  the  least 
spark  fell  upon  it,  and  smouldering  in  and  in 
till  the  heart  was  a  red  glowing  ember.  Back 
in  pioneer  days  it  was  almost  as  essential  to  keep 
your  punk  dry  as  your  powder.  Fires  were 
kindled  by  striking  sparks  over  it.  Hunters 
struck  the  sparks  with  the  flint  locks  of  their 
rifles,  snapping  the  unloaded  weapons  over 
the  punk.  When  a  household  lost  seed-fire, 
if  there  was  no  neighbor  close  enough  to  make 


228  Next  to  the  Ground 

borrowing  a  chunk  handy,  a  flint,  often  an 
Indian  arrow-head,  a  pocket-knife,  and  the 
ever  faithful  punk,  soon  had  a  roaring  blaze. 
You  may  still  hear  about  the  countryside  as  a 
hurried  visitor  goes  after  the  briefest  possible 
stay :  u  You  must  have  come  after  a  chunk 
of  fire."  Thus  there  is  recalled  the  time 
when  all  the  household  economy  lagged  until 
the  chunk  of  fire  came. 

Because  the  old  pigeon-roost  was  so  quick 
and  so  rich,  Major  Baker  resolved  to  keep 
the  most  part  of  it  for  plantbeds,  clearing  only 
a  few  acres  of  it  at  the  back  side  of  his  new 
ground.  Fine  plant  beds  are  the  first  essen- 
tial of  a  good  tobacco  crop.  The  Major 
knew  there  was  money  in  raising  fine  tobacco, 
and  loss  in  raising  poor  trashy  stuff.  So  he 
always  burned  land  a  plenty,  beginning  in 
December,  if  the  ground  was  dry,  and  finish- 
ing in  March.  Sometimes  early-sown  plants 
do  best,  sometimes  late-sown  ones.  Dan  said 
truly,  Marse  Majer  he  always  did  hit  de  season, 
'case  he  took  an*  tooked  hit  bofe  comin*  an' 
gwine.  Beds  are  burned  either  by  piling  or 
pulling.  Either  way  it  is  hard  work  but  pic- 
turesque. In  piling,  the  whole  space  to  be 
burned  over  is  raked  clean  of  leaves,  then 
grubbed  and  covered  thickly  first  with  brush, 
then  with  green  sticks  three  inches  through, 
and  on  top  of  them  with  logs  from  six  inches 


Clearing  229 

to  a  foot  in  diameter.  It  is  then  set  fire  all 
along  the  windward  side,  and  in  a  dry  time 
with  plenty  of  wind  burns  through  like  a 
charm.  But  the  dry  time,  the  brisk  wind,  no 
man  can  command.  Pulling,  which  is  inde- 
pendent of  them,  is  the  tobacco-planter's  re- 
course. For  pulling  you  build  a  fire  upon 
clean,  grubbed  ground,  as  long  as  the  bed  is  to 
be,  and  four  feet  across.  When  it  has  burned 
the  ground  hard  enough,  which  is  known 
by  the  light  black  soil  turning  a  rich  dull-red 
hue,  the  burners,  armed  with  long  handled 
hooks,  cut  from  the  woods  round  about,  pull 
the  burning  logs  over  upon  a  fresh  clear  space, 
pile  more  logs,  sticks,  chips,  and  leaves  upon 
them  there,  and  let  them  burn  afresh.  They 
are  pulled  again  and  again  until  the  bed  is 
finished.  A  bed  ten  yards  square  requires  at 
least  ten  cords  of  wood.  Sometimes  Major 
Baker  burned  beds  fifty  yards  square.  Nearly 
always  he  had  plants  to  give  away. 

What  virtue  lies  in  the  burning,  the  wisest 
among  the  wise  men  cannot  say.  But  the 
virtue  of  it  is  beyond  dispute.  In  pulling, 
streaks  between  fires  are  often  insufficiently 
burned,  and  there  the  tobacco  plants  grow  yel- 
low and  stunted,  crisping  up  at  the  hint  of 
drought,  while  those  upon  the  well-burned 
ground  are  green  and  vigorous,  the  very  moral 
and  pattern  of  healthy  growth.  Tobacco 


230  Next  to  the  Ground 

seeds  are  small  —  so  small  and  fine  they  feel 
like  a  pinch  of  dust  between  the  fingers.  They 
are  mixed  thoroughly  through  a  panful  of  light 
ashy  earth  before  sowing.  The  bed  is  dug  or 
harrowed  very  fine,  then  marked  in  three-foot 
spaces  lengthwise.  The  sower  goes  up  and 
down  by  the  marks,  then  across,  sowing  seed 
a  second  time.  After  that  the  bed  is  tramped 
or  rolled  smooth,  and  covered  with  flat  brush 
—  commonly  dogwood  brush.  In  the  old  days 
the  brush-covering  sufficed.  Now  the  beds 
have  a  mystery  to  equal  that  of  the  burning. 
It  is  a  hopping  mystery  —  a  bug,  called  the 
flea-bug,  which  is  about  as  big  as  the  head  of 
a  pin,  but  owns  an  appetite  many  sizes  larger. 
He  swarms  over  the  plant  beds  just  as  the 
tiny  plants  peep  through,  and  eats  them  ofF 
close  to  the  ground,  thus  ending  their  infant 
careers.  But  for  some  occult  reason  the  flea- 
bug  will  not  live  under  cover.  So  the  remedy 
for  him  is  to  cover  your  beds  —  usually  with 
spreads  of  cheese-cloth  stretched  over  edge- 
wise planks,  enclosing  the  beds.  The  cheese- 
cloth helps  the  plants  as  much  as  it  hurts  the 
bug.  It  keeps  in  warmth  and  moisture,  and 
keeps  out  the  ravagers.  Plants  underneath  it 
grow  big  enough  for  setting  out  at  least  three 
weeks  earlier  than  if  left  without  it. 

Since  tobacco  requires  four  months  to  grow 
and  ripen,  early  setting  is  worth  a  good  deal. 


Clearing  23 1 

Still  the  very  best  tobacco  is  not  the  earliest. 
Early  planting  is  ready  to  cut  in  August.  It 
is  the  hot  days  and  cool  drenching  dews  of 
September  which  make  the  rich,  heavy  ship- 
ping leaf,  full  of  gum  and  oil  and  aromatic 
strength.  Still  it  is  seldom  worth  while  to 
set  a  field  after  the  middle  of  June,  though 
with  a  good  season  —  that  is,  plenty  of  rain 
for  setting  out  —  in  new  ground  even  Fourth- 
of-July  planting  may  result  in  a  fine  crop. 
Late  or  early,  stocky  "rose  plants  "  with  leaves 
coming  out  all  round,  go  a  long  way  toward 
making  a  good  crop  —  wherefore  Major  Baker 
aimed  always  to  have  rose  plants  and  a  great 
plenty  of  them. 

There  were  twenty  acres  in  the  new  ground ; 
yet  after  all  the  trees  were  down,  and  before 
working  up  the  timber  began,  you  could  run 
nearly  all  over  it,  and  never  touch  earth,  by 
simply  jumping  from  one  log  or  stump  to  an- 
other. It  was  a  long,  north-looking  hill  slope. 
North  slopes  are  always  richest  and  best  worth 
clearing —  possibly  because  even  summer  sun- 
shine strikes  over,  rather  than  upon  them,  and 
thus  the  dead  leaves  stay  moist  and  rot,  like- 
wise the  dead  twigs  and  fallen  trunks.  Neither 
is  the  earth  underneath  the  leaves  baked  and 
made  lifeless,  as  happens  upon  slopes  facing 
south.  While  a  real  cracking  drought  does 
land  nearly  as  much  good  as  a  deep  hard  freeze, 


Next  to  the  Ground 

sun-baking  with  wettings  in  between  makes 
it  thin  and  slow  and  cloddy  after  years  of 
cultivation. 

Joe  loved  the  woods,  yet  the  clearing  fas- 
cinated him.  He  did  not  work  there  regu- 
larly, though  for  five  minutes  or  so  he  could 
chop  with  the  best  of  the  men.  It  took  mighty 
and  well-seasoned  muscle  to  ply  an  ax  day  after 
day.  The  black  fellows  knew  all  the  art  and 
mystery  of  clearing  —  which  is  not  nearly  so 
much  a  haphazard  performance  as  at  first  blush 
it  looks  to  be.  Here  upon  the  hillside  they 
could  look  up  a  tree  before  setting  ax  to  it, 
and  tell  which  way  it  would  fall  if  it  fell  of 
its  own  mass.  They  could  also  throw  it  any 
way  that  pleased  them  —  up  hill,  or  down,  or 
across.  Further  they  could  judge  by  the  bark 
pretty  well  how  the  timber  of  a  standing  oak 
would  run.  Rough,  warty  bark  was  a  sure 
sign  of  brash  timber,  never  splitting  true,  but 
with  an  eating  cleavage.  Where  the  outer 
bark  cracked  in  what  looked  like  flights  of 
little  stair-steps,  the  timber  was  warped  —  so 
much  so  sometimes  that  in  the  ten  feet  of  a 
rail-cut,  the  fibers  made  half  a  turn  from  top 
to  bottom.  Crinkly  crisscross  patches  of  bark 
meant  wind-shakes  underneath.  Sometimes 
in  a  big  board-tree,  the  wind-shake  ran  only 
through  one  eighth  or  one  quarter  of  the  trunk. 
More  commonly  it  spoiled  a  whole  half.  Oc- 


Clearing  233 

casionally  the  cut  next  the  stump  was  of  no 
value,  with  the  cuts  further  up  fair.  But  it 
was  only  occasionally.  The  negroes  had  a 
very  true  saying :  "  Whut  start  at  de  butt, 
don't  end  tell  hit  come  ter  de  lap." 

Burning  the  woods  away  back  accounted 
for  much  of  the  brash  timber.  The  oaks 
were  but  saplings  then,  thin  enough  in  bark 
to  be  badly  scorched  on  the  windward  side 
where  the  fire  drove  against  them.  Since  the 
other  side  escaped  with  no  more  than  a  singe- 
ing, they  lived  on,  and  throve  after  a  fashion, 
but  always  kept  the  fire-scar  at  the  heart. 
Very  often  they  began  rotting  there,  and  the  rot 
spread  in  and  upward,  though  still  they  grew 
fairly  and  looked  green  and  thrifty  outside. 
When  the  axes  chopped  into  the  rotten  wood, 
the  axmen  said  the  tree  was  "  doated  at  de 
heart."  Joe  smiled  to  hear  them.  He  knew 
where  doated  came  from  —  it  was  a  corrup- 
tion of  dotard.  His  books  had  told  him  how 
the  oaks  in  the  royal  forests  were  reckoned, 
so  many  thousand  sound,  so  many  hundred 
dotard  —  that  is,  failing  through  age  or  in- 
firmity. As  in  case  of  the  rabbit's  foot  sup- 
erstition, slaves  had  caught  the  word  from 
English  owners  and  passed  it  down  to  their 
free  descendants.  It  was  the  same  with  lap, 
meaning  the  branches  of  a  tree.  He  knew  it 
came  from  lop.  He  had  read  how  "  lop,  top, 


234  Next  to  the  Ground 

and  crop  "  were,  in  the  old  days  often  forest 
perquisites  of  royal  favorites.  Lop,  top,  and 
crop,  meant  what  could  be  cut  away  yet  still 
leave  ship  timber  for  the  king's  or  the  queen's 
navy.  Shipbuilders  had  complained  that  the 
lop  was  stretched  to  include  much  wood  "  ex- 
cellently crooked,  and  fit  for  ship-knees."  So 
the  lop  was  strictly  the  big  branches,  as  the 
top  was  the  whole  upper  tip  which  came  down 
when  the  tree  was  pollarded  —  that  is  to  say, 
topped,  or  derived  of  its  poll,  or  head. 

Often  sitting  upon  the  stump  of  a  board- 
tree,  and  counting  its  two  hundred  odd  rings, 
each  marking  a  year's  growth,  Joe  let  him- 
self dream  of  the  oaks  a  thousand  years  old, 
whose  destruction  had  been  the  prime  end  of 
the  great  Spanish  Armada.  Spain  aimed  to 
conquer  England  by  destroying  her  real  hearts 
of  oak.  What  availed  it  to  burn  or  sink  a 
fleet,  so  long  as  those  pestilent  islanders  had 
timber  to  build  two  ships  for  every  one  sunk  ? 
He  thought  too  of  Sarah  Jennings,  Ranger  of 
Windsor  Forest,  scowling,  scuffling,  scraping 
every  possible  penny  for  the  enrichment  of  her 
husband,  the  scapegrace  John  Churchill,  first 
Duke  of  Marlborough ;  also  of  the  knight  who 
held  a  forest  upon  condition  of  "giving  the 
king's  majesty  one  snowball  any  day  in  the 
year  it  may  be  asked  "  ;  and  of  the  baronet 
whose  tenure  hinged  upon  furnishing  a  pair 


Clearing 

of  white  greyhounds  in  silver  couple,  "  for  the 
king's  majesty's  hunting,  when  the  king's 
majesty  shall  require  it." 

"  Crop  "  he  knew  was  the  brush,  which, 
bound  into  fagots,  made  so  large  a  part  of  the 
fuel  in  that  old  time.  Sometimes  he  specu- 
lated as  to  how  many  loads  of  fagots  the 
brush  burned  upon  this  one  new  ground 
would  make.  There  were  big  piles  of  it 
everywhere  except  around  the  plant  beds. 
There  it  had  been  already  burned.  Making 
brush  piles  indeed  was  the  first  step  toward 
clearing,  as  making  log  piles  was  nearly  the 
very  last.  Before  a  tree  fell,  the  undergrowth 
was  all  cut  and  flung  in  heaps.  Thus  there 
was  better  room  to  throw  the  trees,  and  the 
wood-wagons  got  about  easier,  not  to  name 
better  space  for  working  in  the  laps  when  the 
trees  came  down.  Brush  from  the  laps  of 
course  went  upon  the  piles  first  formed.  Burn- 
ing them  was  very  great  fun.  It  was  done 
always  before  log-rolling  began,  generally  to- 
ward sunset  of  a  windy  early  March  day. 
The  leaves  were  raked  back  a  little  way  around 
each  heap  —  then  a  blazing  chunk  tossed  in  to 
windward  did  the  rest.  The  blaze  sputtered 
and  smouldered,  sending  up  a  smother  of  thick 
smoke,  yellow-white  at  first,  but  swiftly  dark- 
ening, and  bursting  a  little  later  into  licking 
blue  flame.  The  little  dry  twigs  fed  it  — 


236  Next  to  the  Ground 

soon  it  was  strong  enough,  hot  enough  to  gnaw 
through  the  stoutest  stems.  If  they  were 
hickory  stems  they  writhed  in  the  fire  like 
things  of  life.  Hickory  brush  keeps  its  sap, 
long  after  oak  and  poplar  are  bone-dry.  A 
pile  of  it  will  hardly  catch  unless  weighted,  or 
thickly  underlaid  with  finer  brush.  But  once 
well  afire  it  makes  a  magnificent  flame,  red 
and  leaping,  and  full  at  the  heart  of  twisting 
fiery  serpents.  Any  big  brush  heap,  indeed, 
in  a  decent  burning  wind,  makes  a  beautiful 
fire,  the  flames  leap  and  flicker,  and  blow  off" 
in  long  fading  sheets,  or  snap  and  curl  like 
whip-lashes,  twenty  feet  in  air. 

Joe  wondered  no  little  what  his  English 
ancestors  would  have  thought  of  the  log  heaps. 
Plenty  of  folks  in  Tennessee  said  Major 
Baker  was  dreadfully  extravagant  of  timber, 
wasting  so  much  good  wood  a  little  bit 
more  work  would  save.  Some  of  them  said 
it  to  the  Major  himself.  He  only  smiled  in 
answer.  The  Major  kept  books  with  his 
plantation  by  a  curious  sort  of  double  entry. 
Whatever  increased  the  strength  and  heart  of 
a  field  struck  him  in  the  light  of  a  good  in- 
vestment, and  nobody  knew  better  than  he 
that  the  more  log  heaps  were  burned  upon  a 
piece  of  fresh  land,  the  longer  it  would  bring 
big  crops  without  manure,  let  the  season  be 
wet  or  dry.  Besides,  since  his  firewood  cost 


Clearing  237 

him  nothing  beyond  cutting  and  hauling,  there 
would  be  real  extravagance  in  hiring  men  to 
split  up  knots  and  forks  and  burls.  Rail  and 
board  and  stave  timber,  indeed  whatever  was 
fair  and  straight-riving,  he  always  had  worked 
up,  even  if  he  had  no  present  need  of  rails  or 
boards  or  staves. 

Log-rolling  was  a  great  day  —  so  great  it 
is  easy  to  see  how  the  name  of  it  has  got  into 
politics  with  something  of  sinister  implication. 
Big  logs  are  best  moved  by  the  strength  of 
many  men.  Hence,  for  log-rolling  you  ask 
help  of  your  neighbors,  of  course  returning 
the  help  in  kind  when  they  have  logs  to  roll. 
Fifty  men  black  and  white  came  to  the  roll- 
ing in  the  big  new  ground.  They  chose  out 
captains,  as  boys  do  when  playing  ball.  There 
was  need  for  literal  captaining.  Log-rolling 
requires  headwork  no  less  than  handwork. 
Sleight  even  more  than  strength  best  solves 
its  problems  of  weight  and  mass.  The  four 
captains  were  all  veterans  of  many  heaps,  as 
well  as  men  of  mighty  muscle.  Their  men 
were  armed  with  hand-sticks,  for  the  most 
part  of  sassafras  or  hickory,  six  feet  long, 
three  inches  through,  and  trimmed  tapering 
at  each  end,  so  they  might  be  held  with  a 
desperate  grip. 

There  was  edged  rivalry  between  the  crews. 
There  was  honor  in  putting  up  the  first 


238  Next  to  the  Ground 

more  honor  in  putting  up  the  most  heaps,  most 
honor  of  all  in  walking  off  with  a  log  that  had 
proved  too  heavy,  or  two  unhandy  for  another 
crew.  Dan  and  his  crew  won  this  crowning 
glory  three  times  at  the  big  log-rolling,  al- 
though they  were  working  against  older  heads 
and  heavier  bodies.  White  men  and  black 
worked  amicably  elbow  to  elbow,  but  Joe  felt 
a  distinct  thrill  of  personal  triumph  when 
Dan's  men  picked  up  and  almost  ran  with  a 
big  chunky  black-jack  burl  that  had  downed 
old  man  Shack  and  his  crew. 

Where  the  logs  lay  close  they  were  really 
rolled,  often  over  improvised  pole  tramways, 
along  which  they  sped  impelled  by  heaves  of 
the  hand-sticks.  Carrying  was  quicker,  and 
in  most  cases  somewhat  easier.  Two  men 
worked  to  a  stick  —  thus  there  were  six  sticks 
to  a  crew.  After  the  captain  had  duly  squinted 
up  and  down  the  log,  making  sure  in  his  own 
mind  how  it  would  roll  and  lie  when  lifted, 
everybody  got  down  beside  it,  and  surged 
against  it,  until  it  was  loosened  in  its  bed. 
Then  the  sticks  were  placed  end  on,  equidis- 
tant along  the  length  of  it.  More  surging 
rolled  it  over  upon  them,  then  each  man  bent, 
gripped  his  end  of  the  stick,  waited  the  captain's 
word,  and  when  he  got  it,  rose  upward,  slowly, 
steadily,  bringing  the  stick  with  him,  and  inci- 
dentally his  share  of  log.  Lifting  thus  equally, 


Clearing  239 

they  kept  the  log  steady.  If  one  man's  grip 
had  failed,  it  might  have  meant  serious  hurt 
for  the  rest.  A  log  inert  upon  the  sticks  is  one 
thing,  and  a  log  rolling  and  bounding  off  them, 
gaining  impetus  and  momentum  as  it  moves, 
very  much  another.  Every  hand  holding, 
when  the  log  comes  well  above  the  knees,  the 
men  walk  off  with  it,  moving  in  time  as  though 
locked.  When  they  come  to  the  log  pile, 
all  those  upon  one  side  lay  their  stick-ends 
firmly  upon  the  foundation  log,  or  that  one 
which  it  is  best  the  new  log  shall  hug  through- 
out the  burning.  Then  the  captain  shouts 
interrogatively  :  "  All  the  good  men  out  ?  " 
But  he  waits  for  no  answer  before  crying : 
"  Let  her  roll ! "  At  the  word  the  men  who 
still  hold  stick  ends  raise  them  with  a  little 
shout,  heave  the  log  in  place,  then  rush  off  to 
find  another. 

Simple  as  it  looks,  there  is  art  in  building  log 
piles.  Some  men  are  born  with  it,  just  as  some 
other  men  are  born  to  other  arts.  If  old 
man  Shack  had  not  been  so  lazy  he  would 
have  been  the  king  of  log-rollers,  indeed  of  all 
manner  of  timber-workers.  He  had  the  nicest 
eye,  the  quickest  judgment  as  to  how  and 
where  a  stick  would  fit  best.  Logs,  if  they 
are  to  burn  freely  must  be  so  placed  they  will 
roll  together,  not  apart  in  the  burning.  There 
was  something  behind  the  old  man's  braggart 


240  Next  to  the  Ground 

boast  that  tc  ef  them  other  fellers  did  put  up 
the  mostest  logs  at  er  rollin',  them  fellers  o' 
his'n  put  theirn  up  bestest,  though  they  picked 
an*  choosed  the  wustest  ones  ter  tote.  Fur- 
dermore  "  —  thus  the  old  man  — "  them  thar 
piles  stayed  put  up,  —  ye  didn't  never  have 
ter  go  an'  waste  yer  breath  an'  strenth,  a- 
chunkin'  'em  up,  an'  a-chunkin'  'em  up.  Ef 
hit  wa'n't  that  he  jest  natchully  hated  ter  seem 
like  he  gredged  lab'rin'  men  er  little  frolic, 
he  'd  take  the  Majer's  log-rollin'  by  contrac' 
—  but  thar!  workin'  folks  had  little  'nough 
fun." 

They  had  fun  at  Major  Baker's  log-rolling, 
in  spite  of  the  hard  work.  They  feasted  too, 
in  a  manner  befitting  even  their  noble  appetites. 
Good  feeding  was  a  cardinal  article  of  faith  at 
White  Oaks,  whether  it  had  to  do  with  men, 
horses,  cattle,  dogs,  or  land. 


The  Horse 


Chapter    XI 


ENIUS  is  rare,  common 
sense  rarer  still,  horse  sense 
rarest  of  all.  Horse  sense 
is  a  two-edged  phrase.  The 
pity  of  it  that  men  never 
know  horses  intuitively,  un- 
erringly as  horses  know 


men  !  No  less  than  a  poet,  a  horseman  must 
be  born,  and  get  fine  making  afterward. 
The  proportion  of  horsemen  to  horse  masters 
is  about  as  one  to  five  thousand,  yet  only  the 
horseman  born  and  made  can  fitly  master  a 
creature  so  worthy  and  so  wise. 

Horse  sense  upon  both  sides  is  really  know- 
ledge distilled  by  time  and  love  into  wisdom. 
Upon  the  human  side  the  first  essential  of  it 
is  negative  —  you  must  simply  not  know  how 
to  be  afraid  of  anything  on  four  hoofs.  Next 
comes  generous  kindness,  next  justice  strongly 
tempered  with  mercy.  Horses  are  very  wise. 
They  understand  when  punishment  comes 


244  Next  to  the  Ground 

because  of  their  own  airs  and  tempers,  also 
when  it  is  the  vent  of  uncontrolled  nerves, 
savage  tremors,  or  suppressed  rage  provoked 
in  other  quarters.  And  they  have  very  long 
memories.  Indeed  they  have  throughout  an 
almighty  lot  of  human  nature.  They  have  a 
language,  intelligible  between  themselves,  and 
also  to  those  persons  they  admit  to  anything 
like  intimacy.  They  are  moreover  social, 
something  waggish  and  tremendously  conven- 
tional. 

There  is  something  infinitely  pathetic  in  the 
neighing  of  a  solitary  horse.  It  is  long,  shrill, 
oft-repeated,  rising  at  the  end  to  a  keen  trem- 
ulous crescendo,  full  of  appeal.  The  neigh 
of  welcome,  on  the  other  hand,  either  to  a 
comrade,  chance  or  well-known,  or  to  the 
home  gate,  or  the  stall,  is  almost  merry,  full 
of  chuckling  cadences,  altogether  a  voicing  of 
content.  A  horse  used  to  company,  left  alone 
either  in  the  stall  or  at  grass,  neighs  almost 
continuously  for  ten  minutes,  then  waits  a  bit, 
listening  for  possible  answers.  At  pasture, 
jumping-out  is  likely.  A  mare's  mating  call 
is  a  keen,  thin,  tremulous  treble,  the  most 
piercing  note  in  all  the  spring  chorus.  The 
stallion's  is  deep  and  virile,  clear,  yet  touched 
at  bottom  with  a  growlingbass.  The  gelding's 
neigh  is  clearest  of  all.  Horse  voices  vary 
almost  as  much  as  human  voices  do.  When 


The  Horse  245 

they  call  one  to  another  about  the  pasture,  it 
is  no  feat  at  all  for  one  who  knows,  to  locate 
each  by  the  call.  Under  pain  horses  are  stoic. 
But  if  the  pain  reaches  the  height  of  mortal 
agony  they  scream  pitifully,  heartrendingly. 
Indeed  a  horse's  scream,  either  of  agony  or  rage, 
is  a  haunting  and  memorable  sound. 

A  neigh  is  in  most  minds  the  same  thing 
as  a  whinny  —  in  Tennessee  vernacular, 
a  whicker  —  yet  there  can  scarcely  be  two 
sounds  more  distinct.  The  neigh  rises  through- 
out until  it  is  ear-piercing  as  a  trumpet-note 
at  the  climax.  The  whinny  is  soft,  almost 
gurgling,  loudest  at  the  beginning,  and  at  the 
end  a  flickering,  husky  tremolo.  Possibly  the 
difference  is  best  expressed  thus :  the  neigh 
is  articulate,  uttered  through  an  open  mouth, 
and  varied  or  prolonged  to  the  limit  of  breath  ; 
the  whinny  is  inarticulate,  coming  out  of 
the  nose  above  shut  lips,  and  blurred  after  the 
manner  of  nasal  sound.  As  the  whinny  is 
provincially  a  whicker,  so  is  the  neigh  a  nicker. 
In  both  cases  the  words  are  palpably  efforts  to 
imitate  the  sound. 

Brood  mares  whinny  calls  to  their  foals 
when  the  youngsters  are  in  plain  sight,  and 
neigh  to  them  when  they  have  wandered  afar, 
or  are  in  hiding.  Nine  tenths  of  foals  are 
dropped  between  mid-April  and  mid-June. 
A  horse's  age  is  reckoned  unofficially  by 


246  Next  to  the  Ground 

ct  grasses,"  that  is  by  springs  —  and  officially 
from  the  first  of  January  —  hence  the  impor- 
tance of  an  early  birthday.  Hence  too  Sep- 
tember is  almost  universally  the  weaning  time. 
Then  the  mares  neigh  plaintive  distress  for  a 
week  at  least,  and  much  longer  if  their  young 
have  not  been  taken  clean  out  of  sight  and 
hearing.  Weaning  is,  in  fact,  impossible  so 
long  as  dam  and  foal  can  hear  and  answer 
each  other.  Some  weaning-times  one  must 
have  regard  to  the  wind.  If  it  blows  scent 
strongly  from  the  mares  to  the  foals,  or  vice 
versa,  though  they  may  be  grazing  a  mile 
apart,  the  weaning  will  be  tedious  and  trouble- 
some. Mares  kept  thus  apart  for  six  weeks, 
and  their  udders  thoroughly  dried,  have  been 
brought  back  to  their  milk  in  a  very  little 
while  by  the  vigorous  sucking  and  nuzzling 
of  the  youngsters  when  they  were  again 
brought  together. 

Things  stranger  still  sometimes  come  to 
pass  in  horse  breeding.  With  every  lot  of 
weanlings  breeders  graze  a  big  mare,  prefer- 
ably a  barren  mare,  one  that  has  never  thrown 
a  foal,  yet  is  sound  and  kind.  She  wears  a 
tinkly  bell,  and  the  young  creatures  become 
her  abject  slaves,  grazing  round  about  her, 
lying  down  when  she  lies  down,  and  rising  up 
when  she  rises.  To  shift  pastures,  or  get 
them  into  the  big  stable,  it  is  only  necessary 


The  Horse  247 

to  take  the  bell  —  they  follow  like  dogs.  A 
stampede  is  impossible  unless  the  bell  mare 
takes  fright.  Back  in  the  days  of  droving,  when 
horses  went  to  market  upon  their  own  legs, 
instead  of  riding  in  stock  cars,  the  bell  mare 
always  led,  and  was  also  always  the  point  of 
attack  for  horse  thieves.  If  they  could  shoot 
her  rider,  and  make  off  with  her,  the  drove 
came  tumbling  pell-mell  after,  even  if  they 
had  to  swim  rivers  or  breast  mountains  to 
reach  her.  Contrariwise,  if  the  bell  escaped, 
it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  capture  part  of 
the  drove  —  the  animals  would  break  out,  and 
go  back  in  search  of  her,  if  they  were  halted 
anywhere  within  a  hundred  miles. 

Bell  mares  are  thus  herd  stepmothers. 
Some  of  them  have  been  known  to  become 
suckling  mothers,  although  they  had  never 
thrown  foals  of  their  own.  In  several  cases 
they  have  been  pulled  down  almost  to  skele- 
tons, by  the  incessant  sucking  of  a  dozen  strong 
young  mouths.  One  mare  at  least  did  her 
best  to  drive  away  all  but  one  of  the  sucklers. 
That  one  she  mothered  in  really  touching 
fashion,  licking  it  while  it  sucked,  and  feed- 
ing after  it,  no  matter  which  way  it  went. 
She  also  whinnied  to  it  with  the  true  mother- 
note  —  which  is  unlike  any  other  whinny, 
softer,  yet  keener.  Indeed,  this  special  foal, 
which  curiously  enough  belonged  to  the  bell 


248  Next  to  the  Ground 

mare's  full  sister,  could  never  be  weaned  from 
its  foster  mother,  but  kept  sucking  until  it 
was  two  years  old,  and  had  finally  to  be  sold 
on  account  of  the  propensity.  The  rogue 
must  have  had  an  extra  milk  tooth,  since  his 
new  owner  sold  him  to  a  drover  because  he 
had  got  in  a  way  of  jumping  into  the  clover 
pasture  and  sucking  every  drop  of  milk  from 
a  fine  Jersey  cow. 

He  was  a  peculiar-colored  beast  —  pigeon- 
blue,  with  pure  flaxen  mane  and  tail.  The 
drover  sold  him  in  the  far  south.  Nothing 
was  known  of  him  for  a  matter  of  ten  years. 
Then  one  morning,  in  the  pasture  where  he 
had  grazed  with  his  foster-mother  and  his 
fellows,  his  first  owner  found  the  wreck  and 
remnant  of  a  horse,  blind  in  one  eye,  scarred 
all  over,  so  thin  every  bone  showed  through, 
and  so  lame  he  could  scarcely  hobble  upon 
feet  worn  all  round  to  the  quick.  But  there 
were  flaxen  hairs  still  waving  in  his  shred  of 
tail  and  along  his  worn  mane,  and  the  coat 
between  the  scars  was  pigeon  blue,  faded  it  is 
true,  but  still  unmistakable.  Homing  instinct, 
the  marvellous  possession  of  all  the  brute  crea- 
tion, had  brought  the  poor  creature,  aged  and 
worn  out  before  his  time,  back  to  his  birth- 
place. Neither  his  career  nor  his  wanderings 
were  ever  traced,  but  from  the  condition  of 
his  feet  and  the  varied  flotsam  tangled  in  his 


The  Horse  249 

hair,  it  was  plain  he  had  made  a  long  journey, 
and  a  hard  one,  impelled  by  that  mysterious 
force  which  stirs  at  the  touch  of  spring  to 
send  all  dumb  things  home. 

A  homing  beast  does  not  follow  the  track 
by  which  he  was  taken  away.  Instead  he 
strikes  straight  across  —  as  the  crow  flies. 
No  matter  how  badly  a  rider  may  be  lost,  if 
his  beast  is  well  wonted  to  either  starting- 
place  or  destination,  all  he  needs  do  is  to  drop 
rein,  and  let  the  beast  take  him  somewhere. 
At  first  the  beast  may  be  a  little  uncertain. 
He  turns  his  head,  paws  the  least  bit,  sniffs 
now  this  side,  now  that,  shifts  from  one  foot 
to  another  in  leading  as  he  walks  about,  seems 
to  listen  intently,  then  all  at  once  neighs 
shrill  and  long  and  strikes  a  course,  maybe 
fetching  a  compass  to  do -it.  After  it  is  struck, 
he  keeps  straight  on.  If  a  fence  or  stream 
traverses  his  way,  he  appears  to  know  unerr- 
ingly whether  to  go  around  it  to  right  or 
to  left,  or  what  ford  to  choose.  He  will 
choose  a  ford  in  preference  to  plunging  in  the 
stream  at  an  untouched  place,  if  there  is  a 
ford  within  a  mile.  When  at  last  he  scents 
home  —  commonly  a  mile  before  it  is  in  sight, 
he  stretches  his  neck  to  the  utmost  and  gives 
his  keenest,  most  triumphant  neigh. 

"  An  Arab  is  no  Arab  away  from  the  des- 
ert." The  proverb  is  an  exact  statement  of 


fl$o  Next  to  the  Ground 

fact.  Even  more  than  men,  horses  are  the 
product  of  environment.  Running  blood, 
otherwise  thoroughbred  blood,  had  its  begin- 
nings in  Arabs  and  Turks  bred  amid  desert 
stretches,  without  bush  or  brake  to  stint  their 
rattling  gallops.  Trotting  blood  contrariwise 
traces  most  directly  to  Barbs  or  Barbary 
horses,  bred  in  rough  and  ragged  country, 
where  sweeping  gallops  are  impossible,  and 
speed  is  attainable  only  at  the  trot.  The 
Barb  blood  has  of  course  been  largely  rein- 
forced by  that  of  the  thoroughbred ;  further 
trotting  action  is  not  unknown  among  de- 
scendants of  even  the  Godolphin  Arabian. 
Indeed  Mambrino,  sire  of  Messenger,  the 
corner-stone  of  trotting  pedigrees,  had  more 
than  one  cross  of  that  prepotent  strain. 

If  all  flesh  is  grass,  how  much  more  all 
horseflesh  ?  Bone  from  animals  bred  in  the 
open,  running  upon  grass  and  feeding  upon  it 
solely,  though  smaller  and  slenderer,  weighs 
more,  section  for  section,  than  bone  from 
animals  reared  within  stable  walls.  It  is  the 
bone,  the  coat,  the  hair  which  make  up  what 
is  known  as  quality,  and  distinguish  the 
thoroughbred  from  the  common  cold-blooded 
stock.  A  straw  can  hardly  be  thrust  within 
the  hollow  of  a  thoroughbred  or  Arab  or  Barb 
bone,  yet  a  forefinger  will  go  inside  that  in  the 
bone  of  a  Conestoga,  or  Clydesdale,  or  Perche- 


The  Horse  251 

ron,  or  his  derivative,  the  Canadian.  More- 
over, the  big  breeds  have  coarse  bones  and 
spongy  as  to  texture.  Oriental  horses  and 
thoroughbreds  have  bone  compact  as  ivory 
and  well-nigh  as  hard  as  flint. 

A  thoroughbred  wears  a  satin  coat  set  off 
with  mane  and  tail  of  silk.  A  cart  horse,  be 
he  never  so  glossy,  has  hair  coarse  to  the 
touch,  with  mane  and  tail  of  hemp.  A 
sightly  beast,  a  pattern  of  his  kind,  the  lead- 
ing factor  until  lately  in  the  world's  develop- 
ment, the  cart  horse  is  yet  no  match,  weight 
for  weight,  even  in  his  own  special  province, 
for  the  thoroughbred,  compact  of  fire  and  stay, 
ivory  bone,  and  whipcord  muscle.  A  blood 
horse  will  break  down,  even  kill,  two  common 
ones,  yet  be  sound  and  serviceable  afterward. 
Witness  Omar  Pacha,  the  Turk,  who  travelled 
ninety  miles  without  check,  in  time  of  the 
Crimean  War  to  carry  news  of  a  Russian 
repulse,  and  lived  to  a  good  old  age  after, 
though  his  rider  died  of  sheer  exhaustion. 
Witness  also  the  Nedjed  breed,  derived 
from  Mahomet's  own  favorite  mare,  and  still 
kept  religiously  by  the  Imaun  of  Muscat, 
whose  warriors  think  nothing  of  a  hundred 
and  twenty  miles  without  once  drawing  rein, 
if  horsed  with  these,  "  The  Daughters  of  the 
Stars." 

"Oats  !  "  wrote  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  :  UA 


252  Next  to  the  Ground 

grain  fed  in  England  to  horses,  in  Scotland  to 
men."  The  thrust  was  well  countered  by 
an  indignant  Scot :  "  An'  whar  will  ye  find 
sic  horses  —  an'  sic  men  ?  "  Beyond  ques- 
tion, if  horses  needs  must  decline  and  fall  to 
grain,  oats  should  be  the  grain.  Shelled  oats 
and  stemmed  fodder  —  that  is  to  say,  dry  corn 
blades  with  the  midrib  removed  —  made  up 
the  feed  of  the  famous  four-mile  racing  stars 
of  the  early  American  turf.  Corn  is  both 
heating  and  stiffening,  to  say  nothing  of  pro- 
ducing "  big-head,"  unless  fed  with  the  nicest 
judgment,  particularly  in  animals  not  fully 
developed.  Enthusiasts  firm  in  the  faith  of 
blue  grass  and  blue  blood,  indeed  regard  corn 
as  little  less  than  poison.  They  keep  sepa- 
rate summer  and  winter  pastures  for  brood 
stock.  The  winter  pastures  lie  untouched 
until  October,  and  the  grass  in  them  cures  to 
the  finest  natural  hay.  Still  the  cured  grass 
is  not  the  dependence  through  the  winter. 
Beneath  the  matted  blanket  of  it,  young 
grass  pushes  up  fresh  and  vigorous.  It  is 
nothing  for  the  brood  mares  or  the  young 
things  in  their  separate  pastures,  to  paw  aside 
the  brown  overlay,  nibbling  the  choicest  bits 
of  it,  and  crop  the  rich  sweet  blue-green 
blades  below. 

Blue  grass   in    full   bloom,  growing  upon 
the  richest  land,  comes  well  above  the  knee. 


The  Horse  253 

By  the  height  of  it,  indeed,  one  wise  in  land 
lore  can  gauge  accurately  the  producing 
power  of  its  seat.  It  thrives  only  upon  deep 
limestone  clays,  with  plenty  of  humus  mixed 
through,  and  fat  black  feeding  pebbles  here 
and  there.  Rainfall  has  something  to  do 
with  the  growth  of  the  grass.  In  a  dry 
season  the  best  blue-grass  pastures  stand  but 
little  beyond  mid-leg  high.  Conversely  a 
very  damp  and  forcing  season  may  make  the 
grass  upon  second  or  even  third  rate  land, 
come  level  with  the  knee.  Whatever  the 
height  of  it,  in  flower  it  is  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  grasses.  Not  only  are  the  blossoms 
delicately  tinted  in  greenish  blue,  a  sort  of 
pastel  shade,  but  the  blades  as  well  have  a 
blue  bloom.  They  are  thick  and  fine  always, 
even  when  the  grass  grows  in  sparse,  scat- 
tered clumps.  Close-cropped  blue-grass  turf 
is  like  velvet,  especially  if  it  has  been  cropped 
and  trampled  for  fifty  years. 

The  fine  feathery  heads  stand  so  thick  and 
even,  when  they  toss  in  the  wind  it  is  as 
though  a  misty  gray-green  cloud  had  come 
bodily  to  earth,  and  was  rippling  under  foot. 
Sometimes,  but  very  rarely,  blue  grass  is 
mowed.  Stock  breeders  think  it  better  in 
many  ways  to  let  it  cure  upon  the  stools. 
Ripening  seed  is,  they  admit,  exhausting  both 
to  the  land  and  the  grass.  Notwithstanding, 


254  Next  to  the  Ground 

seeds  thus  ripened  are  not  taken  away  from 
the  soil.  They  sow  themselves  evenly  over 
it,  thus  perpetuating  pasturage  no  matter 
what  the  weather.  Further,  the  mulch  of 
dried  grass  saves  from  drought  and  from 
freezes,  conserves  from  sun-killing,  and  in 
time  decays  to  furnish  anew  vegetable  mould. 
Altogether,  there  is  a  mighty  fine  case  to  be 
made  for  the  practice,  and  though  "  much 
might  be  said  on  the  other  side,"  experience 
and  theory  jump  so  well  together,  the  practice 
is  likely  to  endure  a  long  time. 

A  horse's  muzzle  is  as  sensitive  and  nearly 
as  deft  as  a  blind  man's  finger  tips.  It  serves 
him  indeed  in  place  of  fingers,  also  for  things 
where  fingers  would  avail  nothing.  The 
muzzle  is  as  soft  as  velvet  —  especially  upon 
the  upper  lip.  When  a  horse  plunges  his 
muzzle  into  a  heaped  manger  and  scours  all 
about  the  bottom  of  it,  it  is  not  through  greed 
but  through  caution.  He  is  searching  out 
inequalities  —  knot,  splinter,  snag,  or  nail,  so 
he  may  not  break  his  teeth  upon  them  nor 
hurt  his  tongue  and  lips.  He  eats,  turning 
his  head  first  on  one  side  then  the  other, 
licking  up  a  mess  of  ground  feed,  or  grinding 
sturdily  himself  any  sort  of  whole  grain,  as 
he  grinds  hay  and  grass.  Thus  he  records 
his  age,  up  to  nine  years  in  his  mouth.  After 
nine,  his  teeth  are  so  smooth  all  over  the 


The  Horse  255 

crown  he  may  be  any  age  or  none.  Jockey- 
ing dealers  sometimes  file  the  smooth  crowns 
to  simulate  the  ridges  and  corners  of  youth. 
In  the  case  of  a  blood  horse  that  is  impossi- 
ble. The  stud  book  forbids  any  man  thus 
to  take  freakish  liberties  with  Father  Time. 

Colt-teeth  are  shed  progressively,  as  are 
human  milk-teeth.  Normally  the  shedding 
is  finished  at  five  years  old,  when  the  horse 
is  reckoned  "  aged."  Occasionally  colt-teeth 
stay  in  the  mouth  up  to  seven  years.  Then 
they  are  commonly  so  discolored  and  decayed 
country  farriers  call  them  "  wolfs  teeth" 
and  insist  that  unless  they  are  at  once  pulled 
the  horse  owning  them  will  go  blind.  Five 
years  is  the  common  period  of  growth,  though 

(exceptional  horses  may  grow  as  well  as  cut 
teeth,  up  to  the  age  of  seven. 

One  of  the  most  famous  and  deliberate 
among  turf  frauds  was  foiled  by  the  fact  that 
a  horse's  jaw  thus  records  his  age.  Epsom's 
famous  Derby  is  a  stake  exclusively  for  three- 
year-olds.  A  long  time  back,  two  four-year- 
olds  were  unfairly  entered  for  it,  and  one  of 
them,  Running  Rein,  had  the  luck  to  come 
first,  with  Orlando,  a  game  three-year-old, 
second.  Some  way  a  whifF  of  the  fraud  got 
about.  Orlando's  owner  claimed  the  stake 
and  went  to  law  to  prove  his  claim..  The 
frightened  conspirators  killed  and  buried 


256  Next  to  the  Ground 

Leander,  the  non-winning  four-year-old,  tak- 
ing the  precaution  to  remove  his  under-jaw, 
spirited  away  Running  Rein,  and  sent  his 
nominal  owner  into  hiding.  When  the  case 
was  called,  the  judge  could  do  nothing  but 
give  Orlando  the  stake.  He  said,  in  giving 
it,  Running  Rein  was  the  one  really  material 
witness,  and  his  absence  was  proof  positive 
of  fraud. 

A  horse  feels  not  only  his  manger  but  his 
bed,  more  especially  the  bed  of  delight  upon 
which  he  flings  himself  to  wallow.  His  joy 
in  wallowing  is  unmistakable,  though  the 
reason  for  the  act  even  the  wisest  among 
horsemen  has  not  yet  found  out.  It  cannot 
be  classed  with  motions  involuntary  but  nec- 
essary, such  as  stretching  and  yawning. 
Upon  waking,  horses  both  yawn  and  stretch, 
also  after  rising  from  long  lying  in  the  shade. 
The  yawn  is  open-mouthed,  with  a  strong 
out-breath,  the  stretching  much  like  a  cat's 
stretching,  with  the  four  legs  stiffly  extended 
and  the  back  slightly  arched.  In  rare  in- 
stances the  back  is  deeply  saddled  —  that  is, 
swayed  down.  Sometimes  also  one  hind  leg 
is  held  straight  out,  and  kicked  swiftly  two 
or  three  times.  But  all  this  is  solemn  and 
serious  work,  if  something  languid  at  times. 
Wallowing  makes  a  horse,  both  spiritually 
and  actually,  of  another  color. 


The  Horse  257 

Nothing  equals  a  wallow  on  freshly  ploughed 
ground.  To  obtain  it,  the  quietest  animal 
will  often  jump  or  throw  down  a  lawful  fence 
—  that  is,  one  ten  rails  high,  either  locked 
or  stake-and-ridered.  Such  jumping  is  the 
privilege  of  elegant  leisure.  A  working  ani- 
mal, horse  or  mule,  wallows  when  and  how 
he  can,  the  minute  he  is  stripped  of  gear  and 
turned  loose.  But  whatever  his  haste,  he 
always  puts  his  muzzle  upon  the  ground,  and 
turns  slowly  around,  feeling  all  over  his  pro- 
spective bed.  If  he  finds  a  stone,  or  snag,  or 
brush  stout  enough  to  hurt,  he  moves  on  and 
feels  over  a  fresh  place.  He  does  not  even 
neglect  the  feeling  over  upon  his  favorite 
ploughland,  though  after  the  first  wallow, 
when  he  rises  evidently  thrilling  through  and 
through  from  the  delicious  contact  with 
Mother  Earth,  he  often  flings  himself  reck- 
lessly down  a  yard  or  so  from  his  first  bed, 
after  the  merest  perfunctory  whirl-about,  head 
down,  tail  up. 

After  wallowing  three  or  four  times  on  one 
side,  he  turns  himself  full  on  his  spine,  and 
rocks  rather  than  rolls  for  half  a  minute,  all 
four  feet  playing  convulsively  in  air.  Then 
he  whips  over,  wallows  the  other  side  well, 
maybe  rolls  again,  gets  up,  humps  himself, 
puts  his  head  down,  and  shakes,  shakes,  until 
there  is  a  cloud  of  dust  or  fine  mud-flecks  all 


258  Next  to  the  Ground 

round  about.  There  are  of  course  idiosyncra- 
sies in  wallowing.  Some  horses  wallow  three 
times  a  day,  others  three  times  a  week.  Some 
likewise  get  up  and  down  half  a  dozen  times 
before  they  are  satisfied,  while  others  find 
that  one  long,  strong  roll  suffices.  However 
that  may  be,  in  getting  up,  all  of  them  rise 
first  upon  the  fore  feet,  setting  the  hoofs  firm 
and  full  on  earth  before  lifting  the  quarters. 
Getting  up  from  sleep,  or  even  from  rest, 
it  is  just  the  other  way.  The  quarters  are 
raised  first,  not  full  height,  but  squatting  so 
as  to  about  equal  the  height  of  the  fore  legs 
at  the  knees.  When  the  fore  hand  is  up  on 
the  knees  the  quarters  rise  all  the  way  — 
then  it  is  a  simple  matter  of  flexing  the  fore 
legs  to  stand  upright. 

Horses  learn  very  quickly  how  to  flip  up 
an  easy  gate  latch  with  the.  flexible,  almost 
prehensile,  upper  lip ;  also  to  unpin  a  stall 
door  with  it,  or  to  jar  down  draw  bars.  They 
reach  under  fences  with  it  to  pull  out  apples 
lying  just  inside,  and  dexterously  stretch  it  for 
the  sweet,  untainted  grass  growing  in  shelter 
of  thorny  brush  in  a  closely  cropped  stretch 
of  grazing  ground.  In  horses,  as  in  men,  it 
is  the  mouth  which  is  truly  expressive  — 
helped  out,  it  is  undeniable,  in  the  horse's  case, 
by  ears  that  not  only  hear  everything,  but  say 
a  great  deal.  An  angry  or  vicious  horse 


The  Horse  259 

comes  at  you  open-mouthed,  the  picture  of 
fury,  his  teeth  bare  and  gleaming,  nostrils 
wide,  eyes  rolling-red,  ears  laid  close  to  the 
head.  Batted  ears  indeed  are  the  danger  sig- 
nal. Mares  with  foals  at  foot,  especially  very 
young  foals,  keep  their  ears  batted  all  the 
while,  in  sign  of  war  to  the  teeth.  Nor  do 
many  of  them  hesitate  to  attack  whatever 
comes  closer  than  they  think  proper.  Other 
horses,  cattle,  dogs,  men,  even  their  own  famil- 
iar grooms,  all  are  objects  of  suspicion. 

Not  without  reason.  Working  horses, 
mules,  and  barren  mares,  all  will  chase  and 
maltreat  very  young  foals,  biting  them,  tramp- 
ling them  savagely  underfoot,  and  killing  them 
if  permitted.  Brood  mares  rarely  join  in  such 
attacks.  Sometimes  a  mare  late  in  foaling  or 
which  has  lost  a  colt,  tries  to  steal  another 
mare's  foal,  and  thus  brings  on  a  battle  royal. 
Mares  are  indeed  throughout  the  breeding  sea- 
son, of  a  temper  so  uncertain  they  bear  watch- 
ing and  a  great  plenty  of  it.  After  grazing 
peacefully  side  by  side  for  weeks,  they  may 
engage  in  a  melley  whose  cause  nobody  knows, 
and  fight,  kicking,  screaming,  biting,  rearing, 
lashing  out  with  the  fore  legs,  until  half  the 
combatants  are  seriously,  even  mortally  dis- 
abled. Yet  if  separated  before  serious  harm 
is  done,  once  the  mad  fit  is  past,  the  fighters 
call  to  each  other  disconsolately,  and  whinny 


260  Next  to  the  Ground 

recognition  as  one   or   the  other   passes  the 
fence,  or  goes  along  the  highway. 

A  foal's  first  coat  is  thick  and  roughish,  and 
never  true  in  color.  It  begins  to  be  shed  at 
two  months  old  —  then  the  little  bay  beast 
may  turn  out  a  chestnut,  the  ash-yellow  one 
black  or  bay,  the  black-coat  very  dark  gray. 
These  false  first  coats  sunburn  readily  to  a 
sort  of  muddy  uniformity.  Milk-white  horses, 
which  are  about  the  rarest  of  all,  are  white- 
skinned  from  the  first,  though  the  hair  is  a  sort 
of  dull  foxy  yellow.  White  hairs  in  the  false 
coat  prophesy  a  roan  nag.  White,  or  rather 
pink,  nostrils  augur  a  light  coat  hereafter. 
White  marks,  as  stars,  snips,  white  stockings, 
blazes,  and  skewbalds,  exist  from  the  first,  and 
persist,  never  varying  from  the  shape  they 
showed  at  foaling.  Dapples  come  out  with 
the  true  coat.  Four  sevenths  of  all  foals  de- 
velop bay  coats.  The  percentage  would  be 
larger  but  for  the  increase  of  Norman  and 
Percheron  stock,  which  is  very  largely  gray 
and  chestnut.  Among  thoroughbreds,  grays 
are  rarest  —  especially  among  winning  thor- 
oughbreds, yet  grays  are  many  among  Arabs, 
and  chestnuts  rarest  and  most  highly  prized. 
Roan  is  a  coat  the  Arabs  do  not  know.  It  is 
held  to  be  a  sign  of  much  mixed  blood,  yet  is 
plenty  among  English  thoroughbreds,  and  not 
unknown,  though  unfavored,  among  Ameri- 


The  Horse  261 

can  blood  stock.  Gray  horses,  even  the  dark- 
est iron-grays  and  silver-roans,  become  white 
with  advancing  years,  or  else  grow  flea-bitten 
all  over.  Flea-bites,  be  it  understood,  are 
little  reddish-black  spots  sprinkled  thickly 
through  the  white  coat.  Like  a  hog's,  a 
horse's  epidermis  is  colored  to  match  the  hairs 
growing  on  it.  The  colored  skin  extending 
underneath  white  hairs  often  makes  shaded 
edges  to  the  white  marks.  A  white  star  is  a 
lucky  mark,  so  is  one  white  hind  foot.  A 
star  and  snip  prefigures  speed  and  kindliness. 
A  violent  blaze,  or  a  skewbald,  especially 
upon  a  long  Roman-nosed  head,  bids  you  be- 
ware. A  symmetrical  blaze  along  with  a 
tapering  muzzle,  is  a  good  mark.  The  very 
worst  mark  of  all  is  four  white  feet.  If  the 
four  white  feet  run  up  to  the  knees  in  white 
stockings,  and  are  backed  up  by  great  height, 
very  high  withers,  and  a  bald  white  face,  they 
are  the  mark  of  Turcoman  blood.  Horses 
shed  their  winter  coats  betwixt  March  and 
May,  according  to  climate  and  condition.  At 
grass  the  new  coats  get  sadly  sunburned  — 
you  can  hardly  tell  the  most  ebon-black,  or 
glowing  bay  from,  washy  sorrel.  In  Septem- 
ber they  put  on  new,  heavy  winter  coats,  sleek 
and  full  colored.  In  cities,  and  among  fine 
folk,  the  winter  coats  are  snipped  off  with 
clipping  machines,  so  the  horses  may  shine 


262  Next  to  the  Ground 

as  in  spring,  and  the  place  of  the  clipped  coat 
is  taken  by  clumsy  blankets. 

A  horse  has  naturally  these  gaits :  walk,  trot, 
canter — an  easy  slow  gallop  — full  gallop,  and 
full  run.  Tennessee  saddle  stock  owns  be- 
sides, these  fancy  saddle  gaits :  running  walk, 
pace,  fox  trot,  single-foot,  and  rack.  A  well- 
trained  horse  whips  from  one  to  another  at  a 
touch  on  rein  or  mane,  or  the  mere  snap  of 
the  rider's  fingers.  For  an  all-day  ride  the 
fox  trot  is  incomparably  the  best  and  easiest 
both  to  horse  and  rider.  Women  prefer  the 
pace  for  journeys  of  a  mile  or  two.  Five 
miles  at  the  pace,  unrelieved  by  any  other 
gait,  will  tire  anybody.  The  single  foot,  in 
which  the  horse  appears  to  have  all  but  one 
leg  in  air,  is  oddly  enough  the  easiest  of 
all  gaits  to  sit  well.  As  for  "  rising  to  the 
trot "  —  or  even  riding  at  a  trot,  unless 
mounted  upon  a  beast  which  could  do  noth- 
ing but  trot  —  anybody  undertaking  it  in 
Tennessee  would  be  reckoned  sadly  lacking 
both  in  horse  sense  and  regard  for  his  own 
comfort.  Trotting  is  there  recognized  as 
solely  a  harness  gait.  Pacing  is  also  a  har- 
ness gait,  but  for  the  race  track  rather  than 
road  driving,  although  Tennessee  has  devel- 
oped the  most  famous  pacing  blood  in  the 
world. 

For  pure  joy  of  motion  nothing  matches 


The  Horse  263 

the  full  sweeping  gallop.  The  one  drawback 
is  that  neither  horse  nor  rider  can  stand  it  for 
very  many  miles.  P'or  a  brief  pleasure  jaunt, 
over  good  roads,  the  canter  is  unequalled.  In 
any  gait  it  is  curious  what  a  difference  it 
makes  whether  the  horse  leads  with  his  right 
forefoot,  or  his  left.  Leading  means  stepping 
out  with  it  first.  Well-gaited  horses  are 
broken  to  lead  with  either  and  to  change  from 
one  to  the  other  upon  the  instant,  at  the  snap 
of  the  whip.  A  saddle  horse  that  overreaches, 
—  that  is  steps  further  with  the  hind  foot  than 
with  the  fore  one  corresponding  to  it,  is  al- 
ways risky.  The  danger  lies  in  treading  upon 
his  own  heels,  and  thus  tangling  himself  so 
as  to  stumble  or  even  fall.  Crossing  the  fore 
feet  in  motion  is  even  more  dangerous.  With 
such  action  the  gallop  is  always  the  safest 
gait,  as  the  horse  in  galloping  moves  both  fore 
feet  simultaneously.  A  perfect  foot  is  round, 
hollow  underneath,  well  open  at  the  heel,  but 
not  spraddling,  with  a  clean,  live-looking 
hoof,  and  soft,  elastic  skin  above  the  heel, 
reaching  to  the  fetlocks.  A  horse  goes  easi- 
est and  freest  unshod,  but  over  hard  roads  or 
rocky  ones  shoeing  is  essential. 

To  judge  of  a  horse's  temper  and  spirit, 
look  at  his  eye.  If  it  shows  much  white,  let 
him  pass,  though  he  be  otherwise  the  sum  and 
pattern  of  equine  perfection.  White-rimmed 


264  Next  to  the  Ground 

eyes  with  an  upward  roll,  are  the  hall-mark 
of  stubborn  viciousness.  The  owner  of  them 
is  sly,  sneaking,  undependable.  He  will  act 
lamb  for  a  fortnight  to  get  the  chance  of 
bucking  his  rider  off  where  the  ground  is 
hardest,  or  rearing  where  rearing  is  most  dis- 
quieting. The  white  eye  is  as  bad  as  the 
ct  unlucky  hairs  "  which  grow,  if  they  grow  at 
all,  a  little  above  the  eye-socket.  They  are 
longer  and  coarser  than  the  hairs  of  the  coat. 
Arabs  so  dread  them  they  will  not  ask  even 
a  foreigner  more  than  half  price  for  a  beast 
showing  them. 

Ears  tell  of  intelligence  or  conversely  of 
stupidity.  They  should  be  thin,  wide  at  the 
bottom,  pointed,  neither  large  nor  small,  with 
few  long  hairs  inside.  Ears  set  too  high  or 
too  close  together  prefigure  lack  of  stamina 
and  level-headedness.  Ears  wide  apart,  not 
too  low  nor  too  high,  with  the  forehead  arch- 
ing the  least  bit  between,  stand  for  sense, 
vigilant  courage,  and  a  fine  equable  mind. 
Either  at  grass  or  upon  the  road,  good  horses 
keep  one  ear  laid  back,  one  pointing  forward. 
Horses  both  see  and  hear  very  far.  Negroes 
believe  firmly  that  in  the  dark  they  see  and 
walk  around  ghosts.  However  that  may  be, 
they  certainly  see  the  road  plain,  through  what 
seems  thick  murk  to  human  eyes. 

Unthinking  people  do  not  distinguish  be- 


The  Horse  265 

tween  the  herd  and  the  drove.  The  drove  is 
a  number  of  live  beasts,  gathered  and  driven 
off  to  sale  or  shipment.  A  herd  is  likewise 
a  number  of  live  beasts,  but  driven  only  casu- 
ally, as  from  pasture  to  pasture,  and  feeding 
and  being  used  together.  In  every  herd  of 
horses  there  is  a  leader,  usually  a  mare.  She 
it  is  who  breaks  in  or  out  and  runs  prancing 
and  nickering  about,  with  the  rest  tumbling 
at  her  heels.  She  has  memory,  also  judgment. 
In  trying  a  fence,  she  always  selects  first  the 
spot,  if  such  a  spot  there  is,  where  she  has  made 
a  breach  before.  If  she  finds  it  inconveniently 
strengthened  she  goes  pacing  up  and  down 
the  whole  length  of  the  fence,  setting  her  breast 
against  each  panel,  at  each  third  or  fourth  one 
rising  in  tentative  measuring  half-leaps.  When 
she  finds  a  weak  panel,  or  one  that  gives  to 
her  impulse,  she  takes  the  jump  standing,  then 
neighs  a  call  to  the  rest.  They  come  on  the 
dead  run,  and  jump  through  the  gap  she  has 
made.  Unless  a  gap  has  been  made,  or  there 
is  a  space  of  fence  enticingly  low  and  bare 
of  hedgerow  growth,  very  few  horses  will 
venture  upon  a  running  leap  over  it. 

There  is  a  slight  anarchist  leaven  in  every- 
thing on  four  hoofs.  Horses,  mules,  hogs, 
cattle,  even  sheep,  appear  to  regard  a  fence  as  a 
challenge — something  they  are  in  honor  bound 
to  go  over,  under  or  through.  The  horses 


266  Next  to  the  Ground 

at  White  Oaks  sometimes  jumped  out  in  pure 
tricksy  wantonness,  ran  maybe  ten  miles,  in 
a  circuit  of  the  plantation,  then  jumped  in 
again,  exactly  where  they  jumped  out.  They 
had  all  even  an  unreasonable  beast  could  wish, 
sweet  grass,  fair  water,  shade  in  plenty,  salt 
at  will.  They  had  also  room  and  to  spare 
for  racing  on  their  own  account.  There  were 
above  a  hundred  acres  in  native  blue  grass, 
cut  in  two  with  a  stone  wall,  and  snipped  at 
the  ends  of  the  big  fields,  by  snug,  stoutly 
fenced  paddocks.  The  summer  pasture  lay 
upland.  When  rain  was  imminent  it  saw 
some  fine  and  true-run  races.  Whip-Lash, 
Major  Baker's  own  saddle  mare,  was  queen 
of  the  herd.  She  gave  the  racing  signal. 
First  she  snorted  very  loud,  then,  when  every 
head  was  raised,  and  every  eye  upon  her, 
neighed,  long  and  low,  put  her  head  down, 
and  began  to  run  against  the  wind.  As  the 
others  got  in  motion,  she  wheeled,  and  ran 
down  wind,  as  hard  as  she  could  leg  it.  The 

.  O 

others  lagged  a  bit  until  she  came  to  the  turn, 
waiting  to  see  if  she  meant  to  break  out,  or 
race  at  home.  If  she  swept  on  inside  the 
fence,  they  streamed  after  her  at  their  very 
best  speed.  For  a  round  she  held  everything 
safe  —  then  something  younger  forged  ahead. 
Sometimes  it  was  Pipe-Stem,  sometimes  Light- 
Foot,  sometimes  the  chestnut  Sir  Galahad,  but 


The  Horse  267 

three  removes  in  descent  from  the  immortal 
Lexington.  Light-Foot  had  the  heels  —  she 
could  leave  any  of  the  rest  yards  behind,  but 
she  was  not  so  stout-hearted  as  the  colts.  In 
the  beginning  everything  ran.  It  was  laugh- 
able to  see  the  big  brood  mares  lumbering 
prankily  forward,  looking  over  the  shoulder 
at  their  foals.  For  a  little  way  the  brood 
mares  could  go  with  the  best,  but  mother- 
love  hampered  them  inconveniently. 

One  after  another  dropped  out,  and  went 
to  grazing,  until  maybe  there  were  but  three 
contenders  left.  Then  came  the  real  pinch. 
It  was  marvellous  to  see  the  blood  things,  un- 
girthed,  unreined,  unbitted,  without  whip  or 
spur,  lie  down  to  it,  stretching  till  they  almost 
lay  flat  on  earth,  eyes  flaming,  ears  laid  back, 
straining  nerve  and  sinew  to  the  uttermost  in 
big  greyhound  leaps.  Sometimes  these  last 
contenders  went  twice  about  at  that  heart- 
breaking pace.  Oftener  it  lasted  but  through 
a  half-round.  If  one  or  the  other  drew  two 
clear  lengths  ahead  he  checked,  flung  up  his 
head,  turned  it  sidewise,  and  nickered  shrill 
triumph  all  across  the  field.  Then  he  went 
off  at  a  dainty  mincing  run,  head  and  tail  in 
air,  punctuating  his  running  with  little  side- 
wise  jumps.  The  lifted  head  and  tail  are 
enormously  characteristic  of  horseflesh  after 
a  quick  triumph  —  so  characteristic,  in  fact, 


268  Next  to  the  Ground 

scrub  racers,  known  otherwise  as  quarter 
horses,  have  earned  the  cant  name  of  "  cock- 
tails." 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  quarter-racing  to  the 
mixed  drink  accepted  the  world  over  as  Amer- 
ica's glorious  contribution  to  the  things  that 
slake  a  thirst.  Notwithstanding  they  hang 
together.  Quarter-racing  was  the  favorite 
sport  of  tavern  gentry  in  days  before  the  Revo- 
lution. Almost  any  horse  with  four  legs  and 
a  tail,  could  be  patched  and  pampered  to  show 
a  decent  quarter  of  a  mile,  though  he  might 
not  be  able  to  go  a  yard  beyond.  Thus  "  cock- 
tails "  abounded ;  thus  also  mine  hostess  at 
any  fair  inn  knew  all  about  them.  It  was 
one  of  these  hostesses  who  mixed  for  Wash- 
ington and  his  staff,  drinks  of  excellent  Hol- 
lands savored  and  flavored  with  various 
home-brewed  cordials.  "  Drink  !  "  she  said, 
nodding  her  head,  and  setting  her  arms  akimbo, 
over  flowered  short-gown  and  decent  stuff 
petticoat :  "  Drink  lads  !  Lord  't  will  make  ye 
all  feel  as  sassy  as  a  cock-taiL"  At  least,  thus 
saith  tradition.  The  indisputable  fact  is  :  the 
name,  however  given,  has  stuck. 

Cock-tails  and  their  like  have  given  further 
to  common  speech  the  picturesquely  express- 
ive phrase  "  a  wild  goose  chase."  It  is  in  all 
mouths,  yet  not  one  in  a  million  knows  that 
the  original  wild-goose  chase  was  a  scrub-race 


The  Horse 


269 


in  which  the  leading  rider  set  the  course,  and 
aimed  to  make  it  include  as  many  desperate, 
dangerous  and  cramped  leaps  as  possible. 
Whoever  rode  it,  keeping  forty  yards  ahead, 
funking  at  no  fence  however  stiff,  won  what- 
ever stake  was  up.  Wild  goose  chasing  was 
popular  in  England  and  America  throughout 
the  eighteenth  century.  Ireland  clung  to  it 
even  after  that  date.  Rough  sport,  spiced  with 
danger,  it  is  yet  a  question  if  it  was  more  risky 
than  polo,  or  as  much  so  as  the  steeplechasing 
still  in  high  favor. 

Herd  horses  gossip  together  like  a  whole 
sewing  society.  Joe  and  Patsy  were  sure  of 
that  when  they  saw  Whip-Lash  standing  in 
the  shade,  her  head  close  to  two  or  three  others, 
tossing  it  lightly  now  and  then,  mumbling  the 
lips  faintly,  and  making  little  gurgling  noises. 
Sometimes  if  strange  horses  passed  on  the  mill 
road  Whip-Lash  neighed  a  greeting.  If  the 
stranger  answered,  the  rest  neighed  back.  But 
if  the  stranger  neighed  first,  the  reply  was  apt 
to  be  a  chorus  of  whinnies,  but  they  were 
non-committal,  not  warm  and  welcoming,  such 
as  greeted  Joe  when  he  went  to  them  with  the 
salt  basket  on  his  arm.  At  the  sound  of  either 
wheels  or  hoofs,  the  herd,  especially  the  brood 
mares,  pricked  up  ears,  listening  intently  for 
half  a  minute.  Then  if  nothing  developed  out 
of  the  common  they  fell  again  to  grazing.  But 


2jo  Next  to  the  Ground 

a  led  horse,  a  bunch  of  cattle,  a  wagon  loaded 
with  live  stock,  or  big  bright  red  farm  machin- 
ery, even  a  mare  with  a  young  colt  at  her  side, 
drew  the  whole  herd  to  the  fence,  there  to  run 
up  and  down,  peering  curiously  across,  and 
sometimes  showing  a  wavering  inclination  to 
break  out. 

Whip-Lash  was  a  fine  hunter,  but  her  mas- 
ter had  not  always  time  to  follow  the  hounds. 
If  she  heard  them  in  stall  she  began  to  neigh 
and  paw  ;  if  running  out,  she  went  after  them, 
no  matter  what  fences  stood  in  the  way.  She 
kept  close  upon  the  dogs,  but  not  too  close, 
and  was  commonly  in  at  the  death,  After  it, 
she  came  home,  but  not  with  the  guilty  and 
appealing  air  she  wore  upon  returning  from  a 
purposeless  breaking  out.  Instead  herhead  was 
high  —  she  whinnied  when  she  came  to  the 
gate,  and  stood  patiently  for  it  to  be  opened, 
though  it  would  have  been  nothing  for  her  to 
jump  over  it.  Once  inside  she  looked  expect- 
antly at  her  master,  whisking  her  tail  nattily,  as 
who  should  say  :  "  You  see,  I  am  keeping  up 
our  credit,  no  matter  how  much  trouble  it 
may  be." 

Her  master  never  scolded  her.  He  knew 
what  is  bred  in  the  bone  is  bound  to  come  out 
in  the  flesh,  also  in  the  spirit.  Whip-Lash 
came  of  a  famous  hunting  strain.  Neither  did 
he  scold  her  when  she  got  lonesome  and  ran 


The  Horse  271 

away.  It  was  not  often  she  had  the  home 
paddock  all  to  herself,  but  whenever  she  did, 
she  went  over  the  fence  and  off  for  a  good  gos- 
sip with  old  man  Shack's  flea-bitten  gray 
beast.  The  gray  was  disreputable  in  looks  as 
his  owner  —  still  he  had  had  wide  experience 
—  he  had  been  with  the  old  man  throughout  his 
last  four  moves,  so  no  doubt  knew  many  very 
entertaining  things  to  tell. 

Horses  have  very  sensitive  palates.  If  ac- 
customed to  soft  water,  as  of  a  pond  or  cistern, 
they  will  cross  running  limestone  water  with- 
out touching  it,  even  when  very  thirsty.  In 
grazing  they  also  discriminate,  always  choos- 
ing the  short,  soft  grass  of  the  hillsides  rather 
than  the  lush  growth  of  the  swales  and  bottoms. 
They  love  sweet  things,  and  very  bitter  ones. 
When  they  break  into  an  orchard,  they  will 
feed  upon  ripe  fruit,  though  green  may  be 
much  plentier,  and  take  sweet  apples  before 
sour  ones,  even  riper  and  mellower.  They 
dearly  love  the  bark  upon  peach-boughs  in  the 
second  year  of  growth,  also  the  bark  upon 
poplar  poles,  and  the  fibrous  inner  bark  of  red 
oak.  Apple  bark  they  will  strip  off  in  big 
mouthfuls  with  their  sharp  cutting  teeth,  but 
spit  out  as  soon  as  they  begin  fairly  to  taste  it. 
They  browse  fairly  well,  but  care  little  for  any 
wooded  forage  after  the  budded  stage.  At 
work  they  will  nip  almost  any  green  thing 


272  Next  to  the  Ground 

within  reach,  though  they  may  drop  the  nibble 
as  soon  as  cropped. 

A  shy  colt  is  much  easier  broken  than  a 
tame  one.  A  pet  colt,  in  fact,  nearly  always 
turns  out  to  be  a  stubborn  and  ill-tempered 
horse.  They  are  the  hardest  of  all  to  break. 
Patsy  insisted  that  was  because  the  breakers 
did  not  reason  with  them,  as  she  herself  did 
with  Light-Foot,  but  she  could  not  bring  her 
father  round  to  her  way  of  seeing  it.  So  she 
was  forced  to  content  herself  with  salting  the 
pretty  fellows,  and  teaching  them  to  come  at 
her  whistle  to  the  fence  and  eat  apples  from 
her  hand.  Sometimes  that  made  Light-Foot 
jealous  enough  to  charge  down  upon  the  knot 
of  youngsters  and  chase  them  away.  Light- 
Foot  was  the  least  bit  a  vixen,  but  Patsy  could 
catch  her  anywhere —  unless  the  mare  saw  the 
bridle.  Then  she  ran,  tossing  up  contemp- 
tuous heels,  though  after  a  while  she  let  herself 
be  cornered,  caught,  and  bridled. 


The  Oaks 


Chapter     XII 


VERY  manner  of  green 
wood  is  a  true  land  of 
faery,  but  for  subtilely 
varied  charm  the  oak 
wood  leads  all.  Oaks  of 
even  the  same  sort  are 
individual  to  the  degree 
of  idiosyncrasy.  How 
much  more  so  then  the  lithe  white  oak 
against  the  brash  and  burly  red,  the  canny  post 
oak  compared  to  the  splendid  unthrift  of  the 
black  ?  Oaks  all,  in  bark,  in  leaf,  in  fruit, 
in  manner  of  growth,  touch,  taste,  smell, 
color,  they  are  as  unlike  one  to  another  as  to 
all  other  trees. 

By  their  seat  you  may  know  them.  Post 
oak  pre-empts  thin  gravelly  ridges,  and  dis- 
putes swampy  flats  with  the  water  oak,  and 
swamp  hickory,  though  you  find  it  inter- 
mingled wherever  oaks  have  root.  White 
oak,  on  the  other  hand,  loves  a  deep  soil,  warm, 
light,  well-drained,  sloping,  and  full  of  pebbles. 


276  Next  to  the  Ground 

So  does  the  bastard  white  oak,  whose  pedigree 
is  blurred  with  a  post  oak  cross.  The  won- 
der is  that  blossoming,  as  the  oaks  do  before 
the  leaves  come  out,  with  such  richness  of 
tasselled  fringes  on  every  twig,  such  clouds 
of  pollen  as  the  south  winds  shake  out  of  the 
fringes,  there  are  any  oaks  still  true  to  name, 
growing  up  after  the  manner  of  their  parent 
stems  with  never  a  blot  on  the  scutcheon. 
The  secret  lies  most  likely  in  the  fact  that 
the  fringes  are  wholly  staminate  —  the  young 
ovules  lie  so  snugly  scaled  about.  The  curl- 
fringes  come  out  every  March  in  undi- 
minished  numbers.  Whether  or  no  the  mast 
hits  depends  not  upon  them,  but  upon  the 
number  of  pistillate  flowers.  Sometimes  that 
number  is  very  small  —  at  others  a  hard  frost 
destroys  the  ovules.  In  either  case  there  is 
no  mast  worth  mention.  A  squirrel  even 
may  have  to  travel  a  league  between  the  find- 
ings of  his  breakfast  and  his  dinner. 

A  clown  among  oaks  is  the  black-jack,  the 
genuine  scrub  oak.  The  trunk  is  so  crooked 
woodsmen  vow  it  takes  it  half  an  hour  after  it 
has  been  cut  down  to  find  out  how  it  can  lie 
still.  It  is  knottier  than  it  is  crooked,  with 
very  thick  bark  roughly  clotted  all  over.  As 
to  grain,  it  has  none  worth  the  name.  A  rail 
or  lath  split  from  it  with  infinite  pains  might 
serve  for  a  giant's  corkscrew.  As  it  grows, 


The  Oaks  277 

small  branches  develop  all  round,  standing 
stiffly  out  at  almost  exact  right  angles.  They 
break  through  the  bark  as  water  shoots, 
instead  of  growing  naturally  by  partition  of 
the  trunk  proper.  After  a  few  years  they  die, 
but  do  not  break  off  and  have  done  with  it. 
Instead  they  shed  twigs,  bark,  and  sap-wood, 
yet  persist  as  to  the  heart,  standing  out  all 
along  the  trunk  like  bluntish  iron  pegs. 

Black-jack  rots  quicker  than  any  other 
oak,  and  burns  more  slowly.  Tradition  says 
that  in  the  day  of  slaves,  one  particularly 
griping  master  promised  his  black  people : 
u  Christmas  as  long  as  the  back-log  lasted." 
Then  the  wood-choppers  laid  their  heads 
together,  sought  out  the  biggest,  gnarliest 
black-jack  upon  the  place,  cut  a  back-log 
from  it,  soaked  the  log  in  the  pond  for  a 
week,  then  rolled  it  in  triumph  to  the  great 
house,  and  laid  it  behind  the  firedogs.  There 
it  hissed  and  sputtered  and  smouldered  through 
a  fortnight  —  until  two  days  after  Twelfth 
Night,  to  be  exact  —  in  spite  of  all  the 
hickory  sticks  and  oak  logs,  and  kindling 
truck,  and  dry  chips,  the  master  of  the  great 
house  piled  upon  it.  A  grim  man,  withal 
waggish,  he  saw  the  humor  of  the  situation, 
and  rewarded  his  black  people  for  thus  out- 
witting him,  with  a  fine  supper  and  an  extra 
stiff  dram  all  round. 


278  Next  to  the  Ground 

The  black-jack  is  twice  a  paradox.  It 
grows  upon  the  very  richest  land  fringing 
about  the  barrens,  which  are  a  sort  of  glori- 
fied prairie,  yet  belying  their  fatness  by  its 
starveling  size  and  scant  coarse  mast.  The 
leaves  are  likewise  coarse,  clumsily  lobed,  very 
thick,  and  so  varnished  rain  sounds  upon  them 
almost  as  on  a  roof.  But  when  frost  comes 
the  tree  is  transfigured.  For  six  weeks  it 
wears  a  royal  robe,  a  winding  sheet  of  the 
richest,  the  most  glowing  ruby-red,  so  royal, 
so  glowing  it  puts  every  other  red  to  shame. 

A  white  oak  well  situated  is  never  less  than 
beautiful,  but  most  of  all  in  early  spring  and 
fall.  Before  the  curls  are  all  down  it  is  full 
of  young  leaves,  covered  all  over  with  silver 
down.  The  leaves  and  their  stalks  are  of 
the  tenderest  live-red.  The  tree  shows  like  a 
huge  knot  of  bloom  upon  the  face  of  the 
greening  wood.  The  young  leaves  grow 
magically.  By  time  they  are  as  big  as  rabbits' 
ears  they  begin  to  pale.  Next  day  they  show 
the  most  delicate  silver-green.  The  lobes  are 
so  finely  cut  half  grown,  their  shadow  at  mid- 
day might  serve  as  a  pattern  for  lace.  Even 
when  full  grown  they  are  lighter  green  than 
those  of  other  oaks.  In  the  fall  they  turn 
grayish  crimson  on  the  varnished  upper  sides, 
clear  silver  underneath. 

White  oak  timber  is  the  toughest  and  most 


The  Oaks  279 

elastic  among  oaks.  So  elastic,  indeed,  that  it 
is  not  well  to  use  long  beams  of  it,  unless 
they  are  supported.  Its  tensile  strength  is 
enormous,  but  it  gives  so  much  under  loads 
as  to  throw  things  higher  out  of  plumb. 
But  for  bending  and  warping  it  has  no  equal. 
Old  time  shipbuilders  swore  by  it  —  it  was 
the  very  thing  for  sheathing  hulls,  flooring 
decks,  or  making  handy  boats.  Inland  tim- 
ber workers  in  small  ways  also  found  it  a 
godsend.  They  made  thin  tough  splints 
from  it  to  weave  into  baskets,  bottom  chairs, 
knot  into  muzzles,  and  do  a  hundred  other 
things.  Then  from  seasoned  sticks  of  it  they 
turned  wagon  spokes  and  felloes,  to  say 
nothing  of  riving  pipe-staves  for  shipping  down 
the  river  to  New  Orleans,  whence  they  went 
further  to  the  wine-makers  of  France. 

Beyond  that,  white  oak  acorns  are  the  big- 
gest, and  far  and  away  the  handsomest  of  all 
that  grow  in  the  woods.  They  are  very 
long  —  more  than  an  inch,  set  in  beautiful 
shallow  cups,  finely  scaled  outside,  and  grow 
singly  or  in  pairs,  in  extra  mast  years  in 
threes,  all  along  last  year's  twigs.  The  acorn 
hulls  proper  are  a  rich  glossy  brown,  with  a 
round  orange-yellow  spot  at  bottom,  where 
the  nut  grew  into  the  cup.  The  shell  is 
thin,  with  a  white  furry  lining  upon  the  inner 
side.  The  kernel  is  richly  yellow,  inside  a 


280  Next  to  the  Ground 

transparent  brown  skin.  It  is  sweetish,  with 
a^little  rough  tang  at  the  last.  Squirrels  and 
hogs  eat  it  greedily  —  children  even  do  not 
despise  it.  Growing,  the  acorns  are  pale- 
green,  the  cups  bright  brown.  At  ripeness 
the  acorns  darken,  and  the  cups  lighten  to  a 
fine  fawn-gray. 

Oak  galls  are  curious  things,  coming  it  is 
said  from  the  stinging  of  an  unfolding  leaf 
by  a  peculiar  oak-gall  insect.  The  white 
oak  is  almost  solitary  in  that  it  bears  two 
distinguishable  sorts  of  galls.  One  is  round 
and  fuzzy,  as  big  as  a  guinea  egg,  white  with 
red  flecks  all  over,  solid,  partly  edible  and 
sweetish-sour  to  the  taste.  It  grows  at  the 
end  of  a  young  shoot,  with  no  sign  of  a  leaf 
anywhere  about.  This  is  also  the  habit  of 
the  "  devil-thumb,"  the  gall  of  the  black-jack. 
The  devil-thumb  is  smooth,  deep-green,  coni- 
cal, sharply  pointed,  and  borne  most  plenti- 
fully by  the  shoots  springing  up  around  a 
black-jack  stump.  The  fuzzy  white  oak 
galls  are  also  most  numerous  upon  such 
second  growth.  The  smooth  ones,  which 
are  about  the  size  of  a  big  marble,  form 
underneath  perfect  leaves  high  in  the  top  of 
the  tree,  and  are  seldom  discovered  until  the 
leaves  fall. 

Description  and  habit  fit  exactly  the  post- 
oak  gall.  In  every  other  point  the  two  trees 


The  Oaks  281 

are  unlike.  Post  oak  never,  grows  tall,  even 
in  rich  land.  White  oaks  easily  reach  a 
hundred  feet.  White  oaks  are  grayish  pink 
at  the  heart,  and  have  very  smooth  whitish- 
brown  bark.  Post  oaks  are  rough  barked, 
light  gray  on  the  trunks  and  almost  white  on 
the  branches.  Russet  is  in  fact  the  post  oak's 
color-note.  The  leaves  turn  yellow,  then 
brown,  and  hang  on  well  through  the  winter. 
The  sapwood  has  a  yellowish  tinge  through 
its  white,  and  the  heart  is  grayish  yellow,  with 
marblings  of  black.  It  is  the  most  lasting 
of  all  wood  out  in  the  weather  —  hence  in- 
deed the  name  —  post  oak.  Its  habit  of 
growth  is  branchy  and  round-headed,  the 
branches  spread  'far  and  droop  almost  to  the 
ground  wherever  they  have  room.  Post  oak 
acorns  are  tiny,  with  shells  almost  black,  set 
in  the  daintiest  possible  cups,  and  clustered 
three  to  six  on  a  stalk.  They  are  sweeter 
than  white  oak  acorns,  but  have  a  stronger 
astringent  under-tang. 

The  over-cup  oak  presents  the  strongest 
possible  contrast  to  the  post  oak's  fairy  fruit. 
It  bears  single  acorns  sparsely,  big  lumpish 
brown  things,  spongy  of  hull,  bitter  as  to 
kernel,  but  sunk  in  the  most  beautiful  cups, 
mossed  all  about  the  edges  with  richly  crimped 
brown  fringe.  The  acorn  indeed  is  all  that 
differentiates  the  over-cup  from  an  indiffer- 


282  Next  to  the  Ground 

ently  grown  red  or  turkey  oak.  Though  it 
loves  the  waterside,  and  is  rarely  found  out 
of  alluvial  bounds,  it  does  as  little  credit 
as  the  black-jack  to  the  rich  earth  which 
mothers  it. 

The  red  oak  is  a  yeoman  bold,  ruddy  only 
at  the  heart.  His  leaves  come  out  a  pert, 
glaring  green,  of  coarse  texture  and  fuzzy  all 
over.  By  and  by  the  fuzz  flies  away,  and 
then,  for  a  little  while,  the  woods  roads  are 
unbearable.  The  fuzz  is  warranted  to  set 
eyes  and  noses  watering  after  the  first  three 
good  whiffs.  The  galls  are  round  and  hol- 
low, likewise  coarsely  rough,  and  so  plenti- 
ful even  half  a  gale  sends  them  down  in 
dozens.  Red  oak  acorns  are  bitter,  with 
chestnut-brown  hulls  deep  set  in  light-brown 
cups,  with,  like  all  other  acorns,  the  orange- 
yellow  mark  at  the  bottom.  They  have  also 
butter-yellow  kernels,  which  change  to  pinky- 
white  after  lying  on  the  ground  all  winter. 
The  change  means  sprouting.  The  sprout 
comes  out  of  the  cracked  hull  from  the 
blossom  end,  where  in  every  sort  of  acorn 
there  is  a  tiny  knob-like  point.  From  this 
point,  the  root  creeps  down,  the  little  plumule, 
that  will  be  later  a  stem,  up.  If  the  oaklet 
escapes  with  its  life,  it  may  have  four  leaves 
and  stand  as  high  as  your  hand  by  next 
fall. 


The  Oaks  283 

Oaks  should  be  planted  acorns  —  never 
transplanted.  They  strike  a  strong  taproot 
down,  down.  Transplanting  destroys  it.  Per- 
haps the  fact  accounts  for  the  old  "  gentle- 
man's superstition  "  against  digging  up  an  oak, 
though  the  assigned  reason  was  that  either 
the  planted  or  the  planter,  the  tree  or  the 
man,  was  bound  to  die  within  a  year  because 
of  the  planting.  A  sprouting  acorn  may  be 
lifted  almost  carelessly,  dropped  in  the  pocket, 
kept  there  all  day,  then  planted,  yet  thrive 
afterward. 

Red  oaks  are,  as  becomes  yeomen,  sturdily 
adaptable,  growing  branchy  where  they  can, 
slim  and  tall  where  they  must.  They  thrive 
upon  land  of  every  sort  except  swamps  and 
sour  crawfishy  spots  —  there  water  oaks 
crowd  them  out.  They  are  further  quick- 
growing,  making  thick  new  layers  of  sapwood 
each  year,  to  replace  the  sap-layer  mysteri- 
ously changed  to  heart.  The  sap  is  clear 
white,  the  heart  richly  ruddy.  Both  chip 
freely,  and  split  still  more  freely.  The 
puncheon  floors,  which  were  signs  of  luxu- 
rious enterprise  in  pioneer  cabins,  were  almost 
invariably  split  from  red  oak  trunks.  It  is 
the  coarse  grain  due  to  free  growth  which 
makes  red  oak  timber  split  so  much  more 
readily  than  white  or  post  oak.  The  bastard 
white  oak,  which  is  a  true  white  oak,  except 


284  Next  to  the  Ground 

in  the  darker  color  of  its  bark  and  the  fact 
that  its  leaves  are  green  in  spring  and  turn 
yellow  in  the  fall,  splits  easily,  once  you 
have  it  started,  and  with  a  perfectly  true 
cleavage,  although  it  owns  the  solidest,  closest- 
grained  timber  of  them  all. 

Red  oak  bark  stands  next  to  chestnut  oak 
for  tanning.  It  is  also  good  for  dyeing, 
furnishing  either  a  reddish  tan  color,  or  a 
smoky-gray,  according  to  whether  the  dye  is 
set  with  copperas  or  alum.  The  inner  bark 
infused  in  cold  water,  is  the  sovereign'st  thing 
for  sore  throats,  besides  a  fine  tonic.  As 
to  the  timber  the  name  of  its  uses  is  legion. 
It  furnishes  rails  without  number,  house 
logs,  sills,  plates,  beams,  boards,  staves,  barn 
wood  and  firewood  without  end.  Red  oak 
is  truly  the  bone  and  sinew  of  the  woodlands. 
A  health  and  good  luck  to  him  who  either 
plants  it  or  spares  what  is  self-planted. 

Turkey  oak  is,  after  a  sort,  the  red  oak's 
country  cousin,  full  of  family  likeness,  but 
rougher  as  to  bark  and  stems  and  leaves, 
also  coarser  as  to  timber,  and  addicted  to 
warty  gnarls  of  a  size  and  ugliness  no  well- 
bred  oak  should  cherish.  In  the  sapling  stage, 
its  leaves  are  particularly  ill-lobed.  That  is 
however,  true  of  all  except  Spanish  oak  sap- 
lings. A  sapling,  by  the  way,  gets  its  name 
from  the  fact  that  it  is  still  all  sapwood,  too 


The  Oaks  285 

young  to  have  a  heart  worth  reckoning. 
Old  timbermen  say  that  the  thickness  of 
sapwood  is  always  the  same.  In  the 
merchantable  tree  it  seems  a  mere  skin 
round  the  heartwood,  yet  is  really  as  wide 
across  as  it  was  when  the  heart  was  but  a 
slender  dark  streak  down  the  middle  of  a 
white  stem.  All  real  hard  wood  comes  out 
of  the  heart.  For  riving,  as  boards,  staves, 
tobacco  sticks,  and  so  on,  the  core  of  the 
heart  will  not  answer.  It  is  full  of  scars 
and  knots,  left  by  outgrown  and  overgrown 
branches.  A  tree,  like  a  man,  keeps  deep 
in  the  heart  ineffaceable  records  of  every 
vital  event.  The  scars,  the  knots,  may  be 
overgrown,  buried  under  inches  of  sound, 
straight-grained  wood,  but  remain  just  the 
same.  Sapwood  rots  much  sooner  than 
heartwood  —  hence  extra  careful  builders 
split  off  the  sap-edge  from  board  timber 
before  riving  it.  Thus  the  boards  are  nar- 
row, but  a  roof  of  them  lasts  twice  as  long 
as  one  of  ordinary  boards. 

Spanish  oak  and  black  oak  are  close  kin. 
Both  love  rich,  warm  land  inclining  to  be 
moist ;  both  grow  very  straight,  and  very 
tall,  not  branching  considerably  until  well 
up  in  air.  Neither  is  very  umbrageous. 
The  branches  fork  sharply  instead  of  stand- 
ing straight  out  or  drooping.  The  leaves 


286  Next  to  the  Ground 

are  very  finely  cut — the  most  lacy  indeed 
among  all  oak  foliage.  Both  have  grayish- 
black  bark,  thinner  and  less  rough  than  the 
bark  of  red  oak,  and  nearly  always  richly 
dappled  with  gray  and  green  splotches  of 
lichen.  The  main  difference  is  in  the  acorns, 
and  the  color  of  the  leaves  in  autumn. 
Black-oak  acorns  are  longish,  with  black- 
and-brown  striped  shells,  and  set  in  rather 
shallow  delicate  cups.  Spanish  oak  acorns 
are  also  in  striped  shells,  but  with  deeper 
cups,  and  the  deepest  orange-yellow  rounds 
at  bottom.  They  are  sweeter  than  those 
of  the  black  oak,  hence  are  often  called 
"chinquapin  acorns."  School  children  nib- 
ble them,  but  do  not  choose  them  for  weap- 
ons in  an  acorn  battle.  It  is  not  that  they 
are  too  small,  but  some  way  they  are 
not  easily  shot  after  the  manner  of  a  mar- 
ble; hence  but  poor  ammunition. 

Frost  turns  the  black  oak  a  rich,  dull  crim- 
son, the  Spanish  oak,  a  clear,  green -mottled 
yellow.  Thus  the  trees,  growing  cheek-by- 
jowl,  dapple  gorgeously  the  autumn  woods. 
Both  trees  are  prolific  in  galls.  The  galls  are 
practically  indistinguishable,  round,  growing 
out  from  a  fragment  of  leaf,  smooth,  bright- 
green,  glistening,  as  big  as  the  biggest  glass 
marble,  faintly  crinkled  over  the  outer  sur- 
face, and  hollow  except  for  spider-webby  rays 


The  Oaks  287 

running  from  the  green  shell  to  a  central 
core.  The  shell  is  very  tender,  turning  black 
almost  at  a  touch.  It  is  edible  if  one  has 
a  palate  for  faint  sweet  with  a  touch  of 
tannin  under  it.  Spanish  oaks  rival  the 
white  oaks  in  producing  a  second  sort  of 
gall,  one  the  size  of  your  thumb's  end, 
smooth,  shiny,  almost  woody,  of  a  mingled 
red  and  white  all  over.  "Ink-balls,"  country 
children  call  them,  with  some  show  of  rea- 
son. Ink  can  be  made  from  them  by  put- 
ting in  a  little  copperas  or  bluestone.  Besides, 
the  ink-balls  are  cousins-german  to  the  Aleppo 
nut  galls,  that  were,  in  the  days  before  coal- 
tar  came  to  its  kingdom,  a  great  factor  in 
making  the  very  best  black  ink. 

Black  oak  and  Spanish  furnish  timber  of 
the  best,  since,  though  they  grow  big  and  tall, 
they  grow  slow  enough  to  make  wood  of  fine 
close  grain.  The  sap  is  cream  white,  the  hearts 
ruddily  dark.  Both  work  up  excellently,  and 
when  green  make  the  very  best  of  firewood. 
Seasoned,  they  burn  too  free.  It  may  be  worth 
while  to  add  that  green  wood,  though  not  so 
easy  to  set  on  fire,  once  it  is  afire,  makes  a 
hotter  glow  and  lasts  longer  than  dry. 

Chestnut  oaks  did  not  grow  upon  White 
Oaks  plantation.  Joe  had  heard  they  were 
very  plenty  up  in  the  mountains.  He  won- 
dered if  they  were  in  the  least  like  the 


288  Next  to  the  Ground 

uncouth  water  oaks.  The  water  oak  has  a 
trick  of  sending  up  twin  trunks  or  even  tri- 
ple ones,  beset  all  their  length  with  stubby 
outstanding  branches.  Below  the  tops  the 
branches  are  mostly  dead,  like  those  of  the 
black-jack,  only  longer  and  hornier.  The 
trunks  are  lichen-covered  almost  to  the  top. 
Gray -beard  moss  also  fringes  the  boughs  along 
their  under  sides.  The  moss  is  not  a  strang- 
ling parasite  as  is  the  moss  of  Mississippi 
swamps,  still  it  rarely  flourishes  upon  oaks 
in  high  condition.  It  may  be  the  water 
oak's  chosen  seat,  damp  fenny  ground,  is  in 
large  part  the  moss's  reason  for  being. 
Water  oak  foliage  is  finely  cut,  the  leaves 
thin,  very  glossy,  and  of  a  deep  green,  but  so 
sparse  the  tree  makes  no  shade  worth  the 
name.  It  rarely  bears  acorns,  though  it 
blooms  profusely  and  often  sets  a  crop  of 
fruit.  About  mid-May  the  acorns  blast  and 
drop.  So  do  the  galls,  which,  however,  are 
few.  Scattered  remnant  acorns  are  long, 
almost  black,  deeply  cupped,  and  intensely 
bitter.  As  timber  the  water  oak  comes  close 
to  the  post  oak  —  it  is  hard,  heavy,  close- 
grained,  lasting,  ill  to  split,  and  worse  to 
burn,  but  when  you  have  built  a  fire  of  it, 
you  may  turn  your  mind  to  other  things, 
secure  of  half  a  day's  warmth. 


Fox-Hunting 


Chapter  XIII 


EYNARD  the  fox  is  a  wise 
beast  and  cunning  —  still 
there  is  reasonable  doubt  as 
to  some  stories  told  of  him. 
As,  for  example,  how  he  rids 
himself  of  fleas.  Tradition 
avouches  that  he  goes  about 
thorny  pastures  where  sheep  have  been  rob- 
bed by  thorns  of  wool,  gathers  the  locks  one 
after  another  until  his  mouth  is  full,  then 
seeks  out  a  still  pool,  and  backs  gradually  into 
it,  until  he  is  in  water,  all  but  his  eyes,  nose, 
and  mouth.  Now  since  fleas,  it  is  well  known, 
cannot  abide  water,  they  run  before  it,  and 
take  refuge  in  the  wool.  When  the  last  one 
is  safe  there,  Reynard  the  fox  leaps  ashore, 
frolicly  spits  the  wool  back  into  the  water, 
and  gallops  away,  flealess  and  happy. 

Most  likely  the  tradition  is  apocryphal. 
But  when  it  comes  to  luring  foolish  birds 
within  reach,  Reynard  certainly  does  things 


292  Next  to  the  Ground 

which  give  a  color  of  possibility  to  the  flea- 
story.  Wild  fowl  —  ducks  and  geese  —  are 
as  curious  as  a  village  gossip.  So  are  wild 
turkeys.  Any  strange  sight  draws  them  to 
circle  about  it,  close  and  closer,  peering  and 
gabbling  one  to  another  after  their  various 
fashions.  Some  way  Reynard  knows  their 
weakness.  He  takes  advantage  of  it,  by  drop- 
ping flat  upon  the  earth  and  lifting  his  tail  at 
short  intervals  to  wave  it  furiously  back  and 
forth.  If  he  is  after  wild  fowl,  although  he 
hates  wetting  more  than  his  feet,  he  some- 
times plays  in  shallows  close  to  the  bank, 
splashing,  and  standing  momently  upon  his 
hind  feet,  making  a  pretense  of  snapping  at 
something  high  above  his  head.  The  won- 
dering birds  swim  closer,  and  begin  to  chatter 
aloud.  As  he  hears  them  Reynard  plays  more 
gently,  and  at  last  lies  quite  still,  with  only  his 
eyes  and  nose  above  water.  If  the  quacking 
and  gabbling  lessens  he  splashes  again.  But 
if  the  unwary  flock  comes  within  a  jump  of 
him,  he  makes  the  jump,  snatches  a  bird  by 
the  neck,  flings  it  over  his  shoulder  by  an 
adroit  jerk,  then  runs  as  hard  as  he  can.  Usu- 
ally he  gets  off  scot-free  —  the  birds  are  too 
amazed  to  do  more  than  quack.  But  some- 
times it  happens  that  they  fall  upon  the 
trickster,  beak  and  wings,  rapping  him,  jounc- 
ing him,  trouncing  him,  till  he  is  lucky  if  he 


Fox-Hunting  293 

can  drop  his  prey  and  escape  with  a  whole 
skin. 

Human  wild  fowlers  have  taken  Reynard's 
example  to  heart.  Hence  decoy  dogs  —  small, 
reddish,  supple  fellows,  much  like  a  fox  in 
looks,  which  are  painfully  trained  to  swim 
up  and  down,  and  in  and  out,  of  creeks  and 
marshy  estuaries,  the  haunts  of  web-foot 
things,  splash  water,  play  up  and  down,  and 
move,  half  swimming,  half  wading,  in  the 
direction  of  the  blinds,  sure  that  the  feathered 
flocks  are  swimming  after.  In  the  vernacular 
this  is,  u  toling  ducks."  The  dogs  are  known 
familiarly  as  u  the  toler  breed."  The  breed 
and  the  practice  are  said  to  have  originated 
along  the  English  broads,  whence  they  have 
been  brought  with  so  much  else  that  is  Eng- 
lish to  American  shallows  both  seaboard  and 
inland. 

When  wild  turkeys  are  the  game,  Reynard 
lies  down  in  a  drift  of  leaves,  rolls  lightly, 
and  kicks  the  leaves  about  at  first,  but  only 
moves  his  tail  after  the  birds  begin  to  approach. 
He  is  careful  not  to  lie  down  to  windward  of 
them  —  whether  because  he  suspects  them  of 
noses  to  match  his  own,  or  because  he  knows 
they  generally  feed  down  wind,  nobody  can 
say.  Some  ways  wild  turkeys  are  as  shrewdly 
wary  as  in  others  they  are  simple.  If  Rey- 
nard barked  ever  so  low,  they  would  be  off 


1 94  Next  to  the  Ground 

like  the  wind.  It  is  to  escape  him  and  his 
sort  that  they  roost  so  high.  The  young  birds 
leave  the  ground  at  night  at  three  days  old, 
and  at  a  week  can  hop  and  flutter  to  perches 
higher  than  a  man's  head.  At  six  weeks  they 
go  to  the  tree-tops  as  easily  as  the  old  birds. 
But  neither  old  nor  young  perch  in  the  high- 
est tips.  They  keep  under  thickly  netted 
branches  and  almost  invariably  hug  the  tree- 
trunk,  thus  depriving  owls  and  night-hawks 
of  the  flying  impetus  necessary  to  a  success- 
ful strike. 

But  they  have  no  fear  of  the  curious  thing 
stirring  there  in  the  leaves,  any  more  than 
they  have  of  the  fluttering  red  rag  which  sets 
turkeys,  wild  or  tame,  to  gabbling  and  scold- 
ing with  all  their  might.  As  the  big  birds  run 
toward  the  leaf-stirrer  they  yelp  and  p-prut- 
prut  angrily.  As  with  the  ducks,  Reynard 
lies  quiet  until  they  come  within  range.  He 
singles  out  a  hen  —  he  has  no  mind  for  run- 
ning weighted  with  a  gobbler  —  snatches  her, 
gives  a  quick  crunch  through  the  head,  and 
gallops  off",  dragging  the  carcass  until  he  can 
take  time  to  fling  it  over  his  back.  In  some 
points  he  is  a  gentleman  —  especially  as  com- 
pared with  the  wild-cat,  or  the  weasel.  He 
always  kills  before  eating,  and  kills  only  to 
eat.  Wild-cats  eat  their  prey  alive,  rending 
and  tearing  quivering  flesh  until  by  chance 


F ox-Hunting  295 

they  strike  a  truly  vital  part.  Weasels  kill 
from  pure  blood-thirst,  first  sucking  the  blood 
of  their  victims,  then  finishing  them  with  a 
bite  through  the  base  of  the  brain.  Reynard 
returns  again  and  again  to  prey  partly  eaten. 
Wild-cats  will  not  touch  it — each  meal  de- 
mands a  fresh  victim.  And  weasels  not  only 
make  fresh  kills,  but-  kill,  and  kill,  and  kill, 
long  after  they  are  completely  gorged  with 
blood. 

A  red  fox  sharp-set  from  long  fasting  will 
devour  a  whole  goose  or  turkey.  If  occasion 
serves,  he  may  kill  and  eat  one  chicken,  then 
kill  and  half  eat  a  second.  But  if  he  supped 
well  last  night,  and  for  many  nights  before, 
hence  is  in  generous  condition,  one  chicken 
or  half  a  goose  suffices,  though  he  may  kill 
another  and  drag  it  home,  then  come  back 
himself  next  night,  either  to  finish  a  carcass, 
or  to  kill  anew.  Gray  foxes  are  neither  so 
big  nor  so  rapacious  as  red  ones.  One  full- 
grown  chicken  is  their  limit,  or  a  nest  of 
field-mice,  or  a  brace  of  very  young  rabbits. 
It  is  a  mistake  to  think  of  foxes  as  living  high 
upon  poultry  the  year  round.  They  hunt  the 
fields  as  sedulously  as  men  do,  and  only  per- 
mit themselves  to  feed  on  things  tame  and 
fatted  when  their  favorite  wild  ones  are  not 
to  be  had. 

Gray  foxes  are  most  common  in  Tennes- 


296  Next  to  the  Ground 

see,  but  there  are  regions  where  red  ones  have 
driven  out  the  grays.  The  two  sorts  will 
not  live  in  good  fellowship  and  close  neighbor- 
hood. All  through  the  grass  country,  fox- 
hunting is  a  favorite  sport.  There  are  few 
regular  packs,  but  almost  every  place  of  conse- 
quence has  a  couple  or  two  of  hounds  — 
sometimes  half  a  dozen  couple.  Couple,  it 
may  be  said,  used  in  connection  with  dogs  and 
hunting,  never  takes  a  plural.  The  phrase 
hunting  in  couples,  is  wrong  —  it  should  be 
hunting  in  couple.  It  derives,  of  course, 
from  venery  when  stag  and  boar  hounds  were 
hunted  in  couple  —  that  is  in  pairs  with  a 
short  leash  between  the  two  collars  —  partly 
by  way  of  keeping  up  their  courage  and  their 
cry,  partly  also  to  show  how  excellently  equal 
the  kennel  keepers  had  turned  them  out.  It 
takes  mighty  well-broke  dogs  to  run  thus,  one 
with  another,  each  not  only  afire  to  follow 
and  blood  the  quarry,  but  to  do  it  ahead  of 
the  fellow  at  the  other  end  of  the  string. 

Afield,  Tennessee  hounds  are  coupled  only 
in  name.  Until  twenty  years  back  they  were 
almost  exclusively  of  the  stout  black-and-tan 
breed,  or  the  stouter  blue-mottled  Virginia 
hunting  strain.  Latterly  there  is  a  sharp 
sprinkle  of  white-coated  hounds,  with  black 
or  liver  or  lemon  spots.  Black  or  lemon 
spots,  or  black  spots  turned  up  with  lemon 


Fox-Hunting  297 

around  the  edges,  are  most  in  favor.  The 
spotted  hounds  are  thought  to  be  faster  than 
the  blacks  or  the  blue-mottles.  Certainly 
they  are  nothing  like  so  pleasing  to  eye  or  ear. 
Shakespeare  might  have  had  the  blue-mottles 
in  mind  when  he  wrote  of  hounds  : 

u  With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew, 
Crook-kneed  and  dew-lapped   like  Thessalian 

bulls, 
Slow   in  pursuit,  but  matched  in   mouth  like 

bells, 
Each  under  each." 

Since  it  is  largely  Shakespeare's  English 
which  is  spoken  in  Tennessee,  it  is  not  sur- 
prising to  find  there  many  dogs  called  by  the 
names  he  has  made  immortal.  Lady,  Love- 
Locks,  Sweet-Lips,  Snow-Ball,  Jupiter,  Juno, 
Remus,  Romulus,  each  and  several  are  favor- 
ites; along  with  Ring,  Rattler,  Black-Eye, 
Beauty-Spot,  Dancer,  Dixie,  Tiger,  and  Top- 
Knot.  There  are  others  much  more  common- 
place, but  the  rule  of  alliteration  is  almost 
invariable.  No  man  thinks  of  keeping  a 
single  hound.  Since  he  has  at  the  least  two,  he 
gives  them  names  that  halloo  well,  one  after 
the  other. 

Fox-hunting  has  left  its  mark  indelibly  on 
life  and  language.  He  who  talks  of  running 
riot,  mouths  a  hunting  phrase.  Riot  is  tech- 


298  Next  to  the  Ground 

nically  hare,  or  rabbit  scent.  When  the  pack 
in  full  cry  runs  off  on  it,  it  is  said  to  run  riot. 
It  is  the  same  with  running  to  earth  and  un- 
earthing. Under  strict  hunting-law,  a  fox 
going  to  earth  —  that  is  sheltering  himself  in 
a  hole  in  the  ground,  outside  the  limits 
of  the  hunt,  was  safe  for  that  chase.  By 
comity  of  huntsmen,  though,  he  might  be 
scared  out  of  the  earth,  unearthed,  and  run 
down.  He  must  not  however,  be  dug  out. 
u  No  spade  in  the  hunting-field  "  is  hunting 
law,  fixed  as  that  of  the  Medes  and  Persians. 
Neither  can  a  fox  be  found  out  of  hunt-bounds 
—  damages  will  lie  against  the  hunt  so  finding. 
Anciently  the  finding  was  unkennelling.  Now- 
adays when  the  fox  goes  away  he  is  said  to 
break  cover.  Since  he  was  a  beast  of  chase, 
along  with  buck,  doe,  badger  or  brock,  mar- 
ten and  roe,  his  flesh  was  ranked  venison, 
although  he  was  "  a  beast  of  stinking  flight  " 
as  opposed  to  such  "  beasts  of  sweet  flight  " 
as  the  hare  and  the  hind. 

Tennessee  fox-hunting  is  not  a  thing  of 
pomp  and  circumstance.  It  turns  out  no  gor- 
geous gentlemen  in  "  pink  and  leathers," 
neither  does  it  demand  a  small  fortune  in- 
vested in  hunters.  There  is  rarely  a  regular 
meet.  Hunting  begins  in  October,  after  the 
tobacco  crop  is  well  in  the  barn.  Hounds 
and  huntsmen  racing  through  a  field  of  ripe 


Fox-Hunting  299 

tobacco  would  leave  little  merchantable  leaf 
behind.  Runs  commonly  begin  or  end  in 
the  night.  Preferably  they  begin  then.  Some 
shrewd  hard  rider,  maybe,  feels  the  stir  of 
sporting  blood  along  toward  the  first  cock- 
crow. He  gets  up,  feeds  himself  and  his 
horse,  mounts,  and  sets  out,  blowing  his  horn 
as  he  rides,  with  his  own  dogs  leaping  and 
howling  at  his  heels,  and  other  dogs  answer- 
ing the  horn,  from  all  the  neighboring  farm- 
steads. 

He  is  not  long  lonely.  Men  come  out  of 
every  gate  he  passes  with  fresh  hounds  howl- 
ing delight  in  their  wake.  Still  the  horn 
sounds,  still  the  hounds  answer  it,  in  long 
drawn  staccato  chorus.  By  and  by  the  riders 
reach  likely  ground  and  cast  off.  They  are 
well-mounted.  Even  the  common  road  stock 
has  several  crosses  of  blood.  Soil,  climate, 
and  pastures  help  to  insure  condition  —  fur- 
ther the  riders  each  and  several,  and  their 
fathers  before  them,  have  known  all  about 
horses  and  riding  ever  since  they  knew  any- 
thing. It  is  not  long  until  the  hounds,  run- 
ning out  in  leaping  circles  upon  either  hand, 
strike  the  drag  or  cold  trail,  and  open  upon  it. 
Every  rider  knows  the  tongue  of  his  own 
hounds — the  minute  a  challenge  comes  up 
wind,  the  challenger's  master  answers  with  a 
ringing  shout,  calling  the  hound's  name, 


joo  Next  to  the  Ground 

and  harking  the  pack  after.  The  dogs  run 
fast  or  slow  according  to  scent  and  ground. 
If  the  trail  is  old  — "  faded,"  say  the  hunters 
—  the  pace  is  slow,  as  it  is  also  if  the  trail 
runs  through  thickets  or  over  stony,  broken 
ground. 

Scent  will  not  lie  on  frozen  ground,  nor 
when  it  is  dry  and  windy.  The  man  who 
wrote  : 

cc  A  southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy  sky  do  pro- 
claim it  a  hunting  morning  " 

had  assuredly  himself  "  gone  a-hunting  and 
catched  a  fox,"  as  G.  Washington,  Esq.,  puts 
it.  It  is  under  a  mackerelled  dawn  sky,  with 
steamy  mists  rising  up  in  the  swales,  that 
dogs  find  best,  follow  best,  and  fill  the 
heavens  with  their  stirring  bell-mouthed 
chorus. 

The  full  cry  breaks  out  when  the  pack 
strikes  the  warm  trail.  The  cold  trail  is  sim- 
ply the  fox's  old  track,  made  as  he  ran  to  or 
fro.  The  warm  trail  is  his  scent  as  he  flees 
before.  It  is  known  otherwise  as  a  scent 
breast-high,  since  the  dogs  need  not  stoop  to 
find  it  but  pick  it  up  as  they  run,  from  tainted 
herbage  and  reeking  air.  Where  he  has  choice 
of  a  course,  a  fox  always  goes  down  wind  ; 
thus  he  can  run  longer,  and  faster  —  thus  too 
the  scent  is  blown  away  from  his  pursuers. 


Fox-  Hunting  301 

He  makes  straight  for  the  handiest  earth,  but 
doubles  before  he  has  run  a  mile.  A  curious 
thing  is  that  he  will  not  run  along  a  footpath, 
yet  shows  no  objection  to  racing  down  a  trav- 
elled road.  He  knows  where  the  pastures  lie, 
and  aims  to  strike  them  in  doubling,  so  he 
can  weave  Ln  and  out  among  grazing  beasts, 
particularly  s.heep,  or  cattle,  confusing  the  scent 
so  much  it  ta  kes  a  keen-nosed  dog  to  disen- 
tangle it.  But  he  will  not  go  into  the  pasture 
through  a  gap  or  over  a  stile.  He  slides 
shadow-like  through  the  hedge  or  over  the 
wall,  or  worms  through  cracks  in  the  fence. 
Hard  pressed  he  often  lies  down  to  rest  in  an 
embattled,  thorny  thicket.  His  hairy  coat 
protects  him  against'  thorns  that  tear  cruelly  a 
hound's  satin  skin. 

A  gray  fox  may  run  one  mile  or  ten  before 
he  gives  up  his  brush.  The  brush  —  the  tail 
—  belongs  to  the  rider  first  in  at  the  death. 
Next  in  value  are  u  the  ^egs  "  —  the  fore  feet 
—  after  them,  the  "  mask  "  —  or  scalp  —  and 
lowest  of  all,  "  the  pads  "  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
hind  feet.  A  fox  moving  .about  is  said  to  be 
"  on  the  pad  "  —  a  phrase  familiar  to  many  as 
a  cant  synonym  for  much  gadding  about.  If 
the  cold  trail  is  so  little  cold  the  hounds  run 
along  it  crying  as  they  run,  tht-  hunters  know 
the  quarry  is  on  the  pad  —  that  is  to  say,  he 
has  not  fed  himself  and  lain  do\wn  to  rest  — ' 


3O2  Next  to  the  Ground 

also  that  they  will  not  be  able  to  "jump  him," 
but  must  follow  a  running  start.         / 

A  red  fox  runs  as  long  as  there  are  men  and 
dogs  to  follow.  An  especially  game  and  wiry 
fellow  may  run  across  three  counties,  and 
break  down  as  many  packs  coming  in  success- 
ively to  chase  him.  It  is  accepted  as  a  fact 
among  Tennessee  fox-hunters  that  without 
fresh  dogs  you  may  never  hope  to  run  down  a 
red  fellow.  Notwithstanding,  t'here  is  a  story 
current  there  of  a  North  Caroli.na  pack  master 
who  went  out  one  fine  fall  morning  and  got  a 
big  red  fox  afoot.  The  pack  were  all  blue- 
mottles,  in  the  pink  of  condition,  thin  as  lath, 
but  in  hard  muscle,  and  perfect  as  to  wind  and 
feet.  The  pack  master  rode  a  thoroughbred 
hunter,  a  son  of  the  great  Sir  Archy  —  for  all 
this  happened  in  the  good  old,  very  old  days. 
He  rode  with  the  nicest  judgment,  sparing  his 
dogs  and  his  mount  all  he  might.  The  hunt 
began  about  daylight  in  the  extreme  eastern 
edge  of  a  county,  At  sundown,  in  spite  of 
doubles,  it  crept  ov  er  the  lines  of  a  second 
county  into  a  third  lying  westerly.  All  but 
three  dogs  had  turned  tail,  and  were  slinking 
home,  hobbling  on  worn-out  feet.  The  mas- 
ter followed  fort'vvo  hours  longer  guided  by  the 
baying  of  the  thr  ee  staunch  ones  ahead.  Then 
he  too  gave  up  the  chase,  blew  his  horn  in  re- 
call, and  sought  shelter  for  the  night.  But 


F  ox-Hunting  303 

no  dogs  came  back  to  the  horn,  neither  did 
he  find  any  trace  of  them  in  the  morning.  As 
he  rode  homeward  he  overtook  two  dogs,  the 
leaders  of  the  pack.  A  big  bitch  was  still  miss- 
ing. The  pack  master  gave  her  up  for  lost. 
But  six  months  later,  chancing  to  go  still  fur- 
ther toward  the  west,  he  found  his  blue-mottle 
Lady,  safe  and  much  cherished  in  the  hands 
of  another  pack  master,  who  told  him  how, 
about  such  a  date,  his  dogs  had  broken  out  in 
chase  of  a  spent  and  draggled  red  fox,  that 
could  barely  keep  in  front  of  a  bitch  as  spent 
and  draggled,  which  had  yet  no  notion  of 
quitting.  This  was  about  daylight.  Evi- 
dently the  fox  had  run  all  night  after  running 
all  day.  It  was  sixty  odd  miles,  as  the  crow 
flies,  from  find  to  kill,  with  doubles  to  make 
it  easily  more  than  half  as  far  again.  At  the 
end  Lady's  feet  were  raw  and  bleeding  —  for 
a  week  she  could  do  no  more  than  crawl.  She 
came  to  herself  as  to  looks,  and  bred  many 
fine  whelps,  but  was  never  thereafter  up  to  a 
hard  run. 

Joe  loved  that  story  best  of  all  his  father 
told.  His  great-grandfather,  you  see,  had 
been  Lady's  master.  Naturally,  Joe  was  him- 
self an  ardent  fox-hunter,  ready  to  ride  and 
jump  with  the  best  of  them.  He  loved,  too, 
to  read  in  his  books  all  the  niceties  of  the 
sport  —  though  he  was  wise  enough  to  keep 


304  Next  to  the  Ground 

strictly  to  himself  much  of  what  he  read 
there.  The  horns,  the  whoops,  the  yelling 
set  his  blood  on  fire.  When  he  went  to  a 
reunion  of  the  veterans  and  heard  the  "  rebel 
yell  "  from  the  lips  of  the  very  men  who 
made  it  famous,  he  said  to  Patsy  :  "  I  know 
how  that  started.  When  our  men  went  out 
to  fight,  they  just  had  to  holler  like  they  had 
hollered  when  they  went  hunting."  Bigger 
and  more  distinguished  listeners  have  noted 
the  same  fact  —  for  fact  it  is  —  but  Joe  and 
Patsy  did  not  know  it.  That  wild  keen  cry- 
ing, utterly  defiant  of  vowels  and  consonants, 
stirred  them  as  speech  or  martial  music  could 
never  do.  When  the  yelling  rose  and  fell, 
and  then  leaped  suddenly  as  high  as  the  sky, 
at  sight  of  a  riderless  horse,  a  battle  standard 
tattered  until  it  was  little  more  than  a  staff, 
tears  rained  down  Patsy's  white  cheeks,  and 
though  Joe  clinched  his  hands  and  breathed 
very  hard,  all  the  world  grew  blurred  and 
dim  for  at  least  a  minute. 

The  gorgeous  tallyho's  name  is  another  of 
the  things  due  to  fox-hunting.  "  Tallyho  !  "  is 
the  cry  when  Reynard  is  sighted,  as  u  Stole 
away  !  "  means  that  he  has  gone  off  unseen. 
Tallyho  is  a  corruption  or  contraction  of  the 
Norman-French  talllis  hors  —  "  out  of  the 
thicket."  After  the  cry  came  horn-blowing. 
Thus,  when  coaches  were  set  up  upon  the 


Fox-Hunting  305 

public  roads,  with  horns  to  blow  at  the  stages, 
they  came  likewise  to  be  known  as  tallyho 
coaches,  and  later  as  simply  tallyhos. 

Dogs  will  not  trail  a  she  fox  while  she 
carries  young.  She  foxes  are  properly  vixens. 
Like  mother  possums,  they  have  no  tolerance 
for  their  mates  in  the  den  while  the  cubs  are 
very  small,  though  after  a  fortnight  or  so  the 
mate  is  welcome,  and  does  his  full  share  of 
the  feeding.  Sometimes  there  are  but  two 
cubs  in  a  litter ;  occasionally  there  are  six. 
They  are  pretty  creatures,  sleek  and  dark, 
with  spots  all  over  their  velvet  coats,  not 
lighter,  but  looking  as  though  the  velvet  had 
been  crushed  so  as  to  throw  back  the  light  at 
a  different  angle.  The  den  is  usually  among 
rocks  —  any  dry  small  cave,  but  a  big  hollow 
tree  convenient  to  good  feeding-ground  is  a 
great  temptation.  Foxes  will  kill  and  carry 
off  young  pigs,  young  lambs,  and  even  attack 
a  very  young  calf,  —  this,  however,  in  the 
event  of  game  becoming  scarce.  Rabbits, 
and  every  sort  of  bird,  especially  game  birds, 
are  very  much  more  to  their  mind. 

They  also  eat  moles,  mice,  and  such  small 
deer,  besides  nuts,  berries,  grapes,  and  even 
grain.  Captive  they  grow  very  fond  of  corn 
bread,  also  of  sweets,  particularly  honey. 
Some  woodsmen  even  say  that  they  despoil 
the  bumblebee's  grass-nest  and  suck  the 


306  Next  to  the  Ground 

honey  he  stores  there  in  what  looks  like  a 
cluster  of  waxen  grapes.  Fox  cubs,  which 
are  littered  in  early  spring,  are  full  grown  by 
October.  They  are  frolic  creatures,  always 
rolling  each  other  over  or  tumbling  about  the 
backs  of  indulgent  parents.  They  come 
boldly  out  of  the  den  before  they  are  even 
steady  upon  their  legs,  and  lie  blinking  in  the 
sun  or  spatting  with  dainty  paws  at  the  bits 
of  leaf  the  winds  blow  over. 

Old  or  young,  foxes  drink  delicately. 
They  will  wade  a  considerable  creek  to  slake 
thirst  at  the  coldest  spring  within  reach. 
Once  well  rid  of  family  cares  even  the  sedate 
mother  fox  is  no  more  sedate.  She  sits  in 
the  sun  upon  a  hillside  playing  with  her  tail, 
scolding  and  barking  saucily  at  all  the  forest 
folk  in  sight.  Sometimes  she  plants  herself 
upon  a  rock  jutting  over  a  glassy  pool,  and 
surveys  her  own  image  in  the  water,  licking 
her  lips  the  while,  and  smoothing  her  coat 
with  every  mark  of  self-satisfaction.  While 
suckling  she  lets  herself  go.  At  all  other 
times  her  coat  is  spick  and  span.  But  she  is 
far  from  a  neat  housekeeper.  Possibly  that 
is  the  reason  that  she  has  half  a  dozen  caves 
of  refuge  all  through  the  late  summer  and 
fall  —  also  that  she  never  rears  the  litter  of 
successive  years  in  the  same  den.  She  will 
scratch  out  a  hole  in  a  place  exactly  to  her 


Fox-Hunting  307 

liking,  but  much  prefers  to  be  spared  that 
labor.  Altogether  she  is  a  shrill-voiced  and 
shrewish  entity,  withal  somewhat  blood- 
thirsty. But,  as  Joe  said,  what  else  could  you 
expect  of  a  creature  hunted  ever  since  creation 
began  ? 


The  Cow 


Chapter    XIV 


|HE  earth  hath  in  it  the 
virtue  of  all  herbs."  Thus 
saith  an  ancient  worthy. 
No  doubt  he  had  in  mind 
the  quick  spring  earth, 
washed  clean  by  peniten- 
tial floods,  poignantly  alive 
with  the  livening  of  the  frost.  Even  the 
smell  of  it  is  vital  —  especially  waterside 
earth.  As  you  inhale  it  you  cease  to  marvel 
at  the  forwardness  of  waterside  growth. 
Trees  of  every  sort  there  are  half  in  leaf 
when  their  kin-folk  upland  are  barely  bud- 
ded. As  for  the  low  things,  shrubby  alders 
and  slim  honey-dew  trees,  they  stir  before 
the  swallow  dares  even  to  dream  of  flight 
and  take  earlier  than  March  winds  with 
their  beauty. 

The  honey-dew  tree  is  hardly  a  tree  at 
all,  seldom  gaining  a  height  of  fifteen  feet. 
The  bark  is  smoothish  and  silver-gray,  the 


312  Next  to  the  Ground 

stems  inclined  to  curves,  the  leaves  like 
those  of  a  hickory,  only  less  finished  and 
of  coarser  cells.  Against  the  memory  of 
the  leaves,  the  blossoms  are  anachronistic  — 
they  are  so  fine,  so  delicate,  so  rarely  scented. 
They  grow  in  long  sprays  that  recall  the 
sprays  of  a  white  star-flowered  orchid,  with 
their  golden  eyes,  and  crimson  flecks  at  the 
base  of  each  petal.  They  come  out  all  over 
the  tree,  while  it  is  bare  of  leaves,  clothing  it 
in  beauty  as  of  the  starry  night.  Sometimes 
the  blooming  is  so  rathe,  a  quick  sleet  falls 
upon  it  —  then  indeed  is  the  tree  a  fairy 
spectacle.  It  does  not  grow  plentifully,  even 
at  the  waterside,  and  very  rarely  ever  away 
from  it. 

The  groundlings  —  windflowers,  wild  flax, 
wild  violets,  harebells,  larkspur  and  running 
fern,  push  up  as  the  snow  melts.  So  does 
the  grass.  Blue  grass  haunts  and  clings  to 
the  light  earth  of  waste  spaces  along  the 
creek  channels.  Nimble  Will  grows  with  it, 
and  in  the  wettest  earth,  low  branchy  clumps 
of  a  dwarf  reed.  Occasionally  there  are 
rushes,  but  the  muskrats  give  account  of 
them,  serving  them  as,  later  on,  they  will 
serve  the  young  corn  in  the  bottoms.  Just  as 
the  corn-stalks  are  ready  to  tassel,  the  muskrats 
gnaw  them  down,  drag  them  to  the  water, 
and  float  them  upstream  or  down  to  their 


The  Cow  313 

favorite  feeding-places.  The  feeding-place 
is  commonly  a  bare  rock.  The  muskrat  sits 
up  on  it,  with  a  bit  of  rush  or  young  corn 
stalk  between  his  paws,  peels  and  eats  it, 
much  as  a  child  peels  and  eats  a  roasted  sweet 
potato. 

Still  cattle  do  not  miss  the  rushes  —  there 
is  so  very  much  else.  White  Oaks  cattle 
never  ran  out,  except  in  the  early  'spring. 
Trampling  ruins  the  thickest  and  best  estab- 
lished sward  if  the  ground  underneath  is  like 
a  wet  sponge.  It  is  a  waste,  withal  danger- 
ous, to  graze  clover  until  the  early  heads  are 
well  in  blossom.  That  usually  comes  to 
pass  between  the  first  and  the  middle  of  May. 
Even  then  it  is  unsafe  to  turn  cattle  upon  it 
until  the  dew  is  well  off,  or  indeed  for  longer 
than  an  hour  of  grazing,  if  they  are  just  off 
dry  feed,  hence  sharp  set  for  green. 

Cattle,  like  sheep,  like  all  the  ruminants 
in  fact,  have  no  teeth  in  the  front  of  the 
upper  jaw.  They  crop  and  browse  by  press- 
ing grass  and  buds  against  their  sharp  cutting 
lower  teeth,  with  the  upper  lip  and  the  tongue. 
The  cropping  is  then  rolled  into  morsels  — 
cuds  —  and  swallowed  without  chewing. 
The  cuds  go  down  into  an  outer  stomach, 
whence  they  are  raised  to  be  chewed  at 
leisure.  Clover  too  young,  too  damp,  or 
too  greedily  swallowed,  is  apt  to  ferment  and 


314  Next  to  the  Ground 

produce  bloating.  That  is  to  say,  in  fer- 
menting it  sets  free  quantities  of  gas  —  then 
the  poor  beast  swells  violently,  falls,  rolls, 
gets  up  again,  lows,  staggers,  falls,  and  dies, 
unless  help  comes,  and  quickly.  If  the 
bloating  is  discovered  in  time,  it  may  be 
checked  by  running  the  beasts  hard,  until 
they  are  ready  to  drop.  Drenches  some- 
times avail,  but  the  sure  if  painful  remedy  is 
the  trocar  —  a  sharp  spike-like  knife  with 
which  to  pierce  the  animal's  side  just  back 
of  the  right  foreshoulder.  It  must  go  deep 
enough  to  cut  the  outer  stomach,  yet  leave 
the  inner  one  intact ;  further  it  must  be  so 
skilfully  directed  it  will  miss  a  vital  part. 
Major  Baker  thought  prevention  ever  so 
much  better  than  such  cure.  So  his  cattle 
ranged  for  six  weeks  up  and  down  the  creek 
valley,  getting  their  fill  of  tender  watery  green 
things  which  could  not  possibly  do  them 
harm. 

Cattle  browse  by  nature  and  graze  by 
opportunity.  A  richly  budded  thicket  tempts 
them  more  than  the  tenderest  sweet  grass. 
They  nip  off  not  only  buds  but  lengths  of 
slender  stem  as  well.  When  the  buds  grow 
to  young  shoots,  the  tongue  comes  into  play. 
A  cow's  tongue  is  not  only  her  curry-comb, 
—  long,  flexile,  muscular,  and  viscid,  it  can 
draw  into  her  mouth  herbage  beyond  reach 


The  Cow  315 

and  capacity  of  the  mouth  itself.  Sometimes 
when  an  especially  tempting,  especially  well- 
leafed  stalk  hangs  just  out  of  reach,  Sis  Cow 
rears  awkwardly,  licks  her  tongue  around  it, 
and  holds  it  until  she  comes  down  on  all 
fours,  so  has  a  purchase  to  snatch  it  off. 

Shrubs  abounded  in  the  creek  valley,  so 
did  grassy  banks,  and  flats  set  thick  with 
May-apples.  These  the  cattle  nipped  if 
they  came  upon  them  just  as  the  leaves  were 
pushing  through,  folded  like  fairy  umbrellas 
of  shot  silk,  green  and  crimson.  If  the 
umbrella  escaped  to  unfold  as  flat  round- 
notched  pale-green  leaves,  with  waxen  apple- 
scented  blossoms  set  singly  upon  the  stalks 
underneath,  the  beasts  did  no  more  than 
trample  them  down.  It  was  the  same  with 
the  pawpaw  thickets  —  budded  tips  were 
greedily  snatched,  although  they  came  out 
later  than  the  most.  But  after  the  curious 
blackish-red  blooms  opened,  such  tips  as 
remained  were  safe  against  browsing.  Paw- 
paw blossoms  like  those  of  the  May-apple, 
breathe  an  odor  reminiscent  of  the  ripe  fruit, 
which  possibly  is  not  to  the  ruminant  mind 
and  nostrils. 

There  was  an  old  field  or  two  along  the 
creek.  Pioneer  settlers  hugged  the  wooded 
streamsides,  thus  assuring  themselves  fuel  and 
water,  though  the  barrens  and  the  farther 


3 1 6  Next  to  the  Ground 

prairies  invited  with  land  all  but  ready  for  the 
plough.  The  bottoms  were  mostly  still  in 
cultivation,  but  some  upland  stretches  lay 
out,  and  were  swarded  over  with  blue  grass, 
battling  for  root-hold  against  the  ever-present 
sedge.  It  was  not  so  unequal  a  battle  as  it 
looked.  If  the  sedge  was  strong  and  flinty, 
with  feather-winged  seed,  the  blue  grass  had 
stay  to  match  the  best  thorough-bred  that 
ever  grazed  on  it.  Moreover,  it  throve 
under  trampling,  as  sedge  could  not  do. 
Between  them  they  managed  to  make  the 
old  fields  the  assembly-place  of  cattle  for 
miles  and  miles  about. 

One  of  the  old  fields  had  big  gnarled 
apple  trees  dotted  over  half  of  it.  They 
stood,  some  of  them,  four-square,  and  all  of 
them  in  such  manner  you  could  see  they 
were  the  remnant  of  orchard  rows.  They 
did  not  bear  much  fruit,  and  what  did  form 
was  sour  and  apt  to  mildew  ;  but,  for  all  that, 
they  bloomed  royally  as  certain  as  the  spring 
came  round.  They  had  wide-spread  droop- 
ing branches,  marked  all  along  the  under 
edge,  as  high  as  cattle  could  reach,  with  dead 
twigs  killed  by  continuous  cropping.  Above 
that  the  round  heads  were  half-globes  of 
netted  stems  and  leaves,  so  thick  no  sunray 
pierced  through  even  at  the  hottest  high 
noon.  Cattle  came  to  lie  in  the  shade, 


The  Cow  317 

chewing  the  cud  contentedly,  and  flicking 
away  chance  flies  with  lazy  flourishes  of  the 
tail  tip.  There  was  a  path  from  the  creek 
to  almost  every  tree.  Cattle,  indeed,  are  as 
great  path-makers  as  hogs  or  ants.  They 
walk  in  single  file,  one  treading  almost  upon 
the  heels  of  the  other.  In  every  herd,  how- 
ever small,  there  is  a  queen.  Commonly  it 
is  the  bell  cow.  In  the  old  field  there  was 
of  course  disputed  supremacy.  Three  bell 
cows  sometimes  chewed  the  cud  of  peace  in 
the  shade  of  a  single  tree.  More  commonly 
there  was  a  bell  cow  to  a  tree,  monarch  of 
all  she  surveyed,  within  its  circle  of  shadow. 
When  she  rose  up,  the  rest  obediently  fol- 
lowed her  example ;  when  she  browsed,  they 
also  browsed ;  when  she  turned  her  head, 
nose  upward,  sniffed,  lowed,  and  began  the 
march  home,  her  companions  followed  in  her 
footsteps.  Outlanders  also  laid  a  course  for 
their  own  proper  pens. 

Sometimes,  when  grazing  was  lush  and 
extra  plenty,  the  home-going  began  about 
four  o'clock.  Oftener  sundown  was  the 
starting  hour.  For  a  while  the  going  was 
slow  —  slow  enough  to  nip  grass  and  swing- 
ing bushes  in  passing.  But  as  dusk  thickened, 
the  leader  was  apt  to  break  into  a  furious 
running,  which  set  her  bell  wildly  jangling, 
and  brought  the  herd  after  her  at  speed,  low- 


3 1 8  Next  to  the  Ground 

ing,  and  crowding  one  upon  another,  in  place 
of  keeping  the  proper  orderly  rank.  Then 
the  black  milk-maids  waiting  in  the  cow-pens 
nodded  as  they  heard  the  bell  jangling,  and 
said  to  the  calf-minders :  "  Ah,  ha  !  Old  Sis 
Bell  Cow  comin'  home  a-gilpin  !  Reckon 
she  sees  ha'nts  out  dar  in  the  woods."  Since 
the  milk-maids  were  wholly  unlettered  and 
had  never  heard  of  John  Gilpin,  it  is  at  least 
a  tenable  supposition  that  gilpin,  an  old  Eng- 
lish word  for  rapid  motion,  was  chosen  by 
Cowper  as  an  emblematic  name  for  his  hero 
of  the  fast  and  furious  ride. 

In  the  farmlands  a  calf's  weaning  age  is 
indefinite ;  it  runs  from  six  months  to  two 
years.  At  each  milking  the  calves  are 
suckled.  If  there  are  cows  a  plenty,  a  young 
calf  gets  two  teats  —  that  is,  all  the  milk  in 
them,  besides  sucking  the  other  two,  until 
the  froth  ropes  from  his  mouth.  Let  alone, 
he  will  hang  on  to  the  first  teat  seized,  until 
milk  no  longer  flows  freely  into  his  mouth, 
then  change  to  the  others,  one  after  another, 
and  at  last  go  back  to  the  first,  sucking  it 
till  it  looks  like  a  dry  wrinkled  whiffet,  then 
hunching  vigorously  to  make  the  last  drops 
of  cream  come  down.  Cows  can  and  do 
hold  up  their  milk.  To  do  it,  they  stand 
with  the  backbone  slightly  arched,  the  feet 
braced  and  squarely  under  them,  instead  of 


The  Cow  319 

spread  out  behind  and  before.  In  the  udder, 
as  in  the  pail,  cream  always  rises  to  the  top. 
As  fast  as  the  milk  is  secreted,  specific  grav- 
ity begins  to  work,  setting  the  fats  of  it  above 
the  watery  parts.  This  is  the  reason  close 
stripping  is  so  essential  to  big  butter-yields. 
It  is  also  the  reason  that,  as  the  calves  get 
old  enough  to  eat  grass,  they  are  suckled  all 
round  —  that  is  to  say,  have  their  mouths 
pulled  quickly  from  teat  to  teat,  so  as  to 
draw  away  the  low  milk,  and  leave  the  cream 
for  the  pail. 

Sis  Cow  does  not  stomach  this  robbery  of 
her  calf.  She  knows  intuitively  how  much 
more  nourishing  and  heartening  is  her  cream 
than  mere  milk.  So,  when  milking  proper 
begins,  at  first  she  gives  down  freely  enough, 
then  all  at  once  the  flow  checks  —  milk  as 
she  may,  the  milker  gets  but  a  faint  white 
frothy  trickle.  Then  it  is  strategy  meets 
strategy.  The  calf,  which  has  been  pulled 
off  and  either  roped  or  turned  outside  the 
cow-pen,  is  fetched  back  and  allowed  to 
suck  a  bit.  Sis  Cow  spreads  her  feet,  moos 
content,  and  licks  her  baby,  seeming  to  thrill 
happily  at  his  vigorous  hunchings.  In  a 
twinkle  he  is  dragged  off,  and  there  is  the 
milker,  quart-cup  in  hand,  intent  to  fill  it 
with  the  precious  strippings,  and  save  them 
for  her  churn.  Plain  milk,  she  holds,  is 


320  Next  to  the  Ground 

plenty  rich  enough  for  drinking,  either  by 
children  or  calves. 

There  were  thickets  round  about  the  old 
field  of  the  apple  trees  and  skirting  woods 
beyond.  That  made  it  a  favorite  place  for 
cows  to  drop  and  hide  their  calves.  They 
stole  away  from  the  herd  to  some  sequestered 
spot,  were  invisible  for  twenty-four  hours, 
then  came  pacing  back  to  graze  with  the 
rest.  Since  wild  hogs  sometimes  came  into 
the  woods,  it  was  the  part  of  wisdom  to  hunt 
the  calves  and  bring  them  home  as  soon  as 
possible.  Joe  and  Patsy  nearly  always  went 
with  Black  Mammy  upon  such  expeditions. 
They  also  rode  out  to  drive  up  the  cows 
whenever  they  got  in  the  way  of  coming  late 
to  the  pen.  Pipe-Stem  and  Light-Foot  both 
knew  how  to  drive  cattle  without  hurting 
them,  and  enjoyed  the  wheeling,  the  twisting, 
the  gallops  to  head  the  herd  off,  just  a  little 
bit  more  than  even  their  riders.  But  the  calf 
hunting  was  done  afoot,  with  Watch  for 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend. 

Watch  could  easily  have  smelled  out  the 
little  hidden  beast,  but  there  was  no  need  for 
it.  The  minute  the  cow  caught  sight  of  the 
big  dog,  she  charged  down  upon  him  with 
lowered  horn  and  angry  puffs  of  breath.  If 
she  had  mooed,  a  low  peculiar  moo,  every 
hoof  and  horn  within  hearing  would  have 


The  Cow  321 

come  to  her  help.  If  Watch  had  been 
alone,  she  would  have  sounded  this  rallying- 
call.  Human  company  changed  his  presence 
from  a  menace  to  an  irritation.  Watch  met 
the  charge  by  dropping  behind  Joe,  not  slink- 
ing, but  simply  effacing  himself  until  there 
was  need  of  action.  Black  Mammy  soothed 
the  cow,  fed  her  a  little  bran  with  gun- 
powder mixed  through  it,  and  while  the  beast 
ate,  tried  to  get  her  hand  upon  the  swollen 
udder.  With  cows  broken  to  the  pail  that 
was  easy.  Heifers,  just  coming  in,  backed 
away  from  her,  sometimes  with  brandished 
horns.  Then  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  find  the  calf  and  drive  it  home  with  the 
mother.  Unless  a  cow,  especially  a  young 
cow,  is  milked  clean  soon  after  calving,  the 
milk  will  clot,  cake,  set  up  fevers,  and  spoil 
the  udder  —  particularly  if  she  gets  her  fill 
of  succulent  green  food. 

Mammy  went  on  with  her  gang  toward 
the  likeliest  thickets,  looking  over  her  shoulder 
as  she  walked,  and  changing  her  course  until 
she  saw  the  cow  begin  to  run  after.  Then 
she  kept  straight  ahead,  and  set  Watch  to 
snuffing  at  leaves  and  brush.  Instantly  the 
cow  began  to  run,  lowing  as  she  ran.  And 
then  out  from  some  brush  clump  or  tuft  of 
sedge  there  started  a  calf,  a  saucy  fellow, 
bright-eyed,  with  a  rich  velvety  coat,  dazzling 


322  Next  to  the  Ground 

white  if  it  had  white  anywhere  about  it, 
royally  red,  or  spotted  to  vie  with  Joseph's 
coat  of  old.  He  stood  stiffly  upright  for  a 
breath,  staring  about  him,  then  curled  his  tail 
over  his  back  and  dashed  to  meet  his  dam, 
who  at  once  cuddled  him  under  her  chin, 
lowered  her  horns,  and  brandished  them  if 
Watch  so  much  as  looked  at  her,  but  after 
the  dog  was  ordered  home,  suffered  herself  to 
be  driven  slowly  to  the  pen,  with  her  baby 
trotting  at  her  side. 

In  milking  her,  the  first  flow  was  rather 
sticky,  and  of  a  deep  cheesy  yellow.  u  Beasly 
milk,"  Black  Mammy  called  it.  Joe  listened 
to  her  and  smiled.  Beasly  seemed  to  him  a 
corruption  of  beastings,  the  old  English  name 
for  such  a  flow.  He  smiled  too  to  see  how 
careful  Mammy  was  that  none  of  the  first 
flow  should  fall  upon  the  ground.  She 
believed  firmly  that  to  let  it  fall  there  and 
dry  in  would  dry  up  the  cow's  milk  very 
shortly,  and  make  her  ever  after  unprofitable. 
She  had  faith  too  that  by  pouring  the  milk  all 
along  the  backbone,  rubbing  it  in,  making  the 
sign  of  a  cross  with  it  over  the  shoulders,  and 
mumbling  inarticulately  while  all  this  went  on, 
she  made  it  certain  that  the  cow  could  not 
be  "  witched,"  that  she  would  not  kick  over 
the  milk-pail,  nor  spoil  her  milk  by  feeding 
upon  poison  oak,  known  locally  as  cow-itch. 


The  Cow  323 

Milk-giving  is  a  habit,  founded  upon 
nature  and  predisposition.  A  young  cow  of 
the  finest  milking  strain,  will  soon  give  only 
what  her  calf  can  suck,  if  the  calf  is  per- 
mitted to  do  the  milking.  White  Oaks 
cows  were  milked  regularly,  and  stripped 
very  clean  from  the  day  they  came  in,  but 
until  the  calves  were  a  month  old,  the  pigs 
got  the  milk.  The  calves,  of  course  were 
allowed  to  suck,  and  suck  — the  trouble  was 
their  small  bodies  could  not  hold  four  gallons. 
Though  they  were  suckled  three  times  a 
day  if  the  cows  came  home  at  noon,  they 
always  set  up  a  great  bawling  and  bleat- 
ing at  night  and  ran  with  lifted  tails  down 
the  fence,  the  minute  they  heard  the  first 
faint  low  of  their  homing  dams.  These  of 
course  were  calves  of  the  milk  cows.  Joe 
pitied  the  little  creatures,  though  he  knew 
they  were  always  well  fed,  and  wondered  if 
they  did  not  envy  the  other  calves,  those  meant 
for  beef,  which  ran  with  their  mothers,  and 
took  nips  of  warm  milk  about  every  half  hour. 

They  were  fine  fellows,  all  dark  red  roans 
like  their  short-horn  sire,  but  Joe  did  not 
care  for  them  as  he  did  for  the  scrub  calves. 
Scrub  stock  is  a  colloquialism  for  ordinary 
native  blood.  White  Oaks  scrub  stock  was 
not  the  least  scrubby,  although  it  lacked  uni- 
formity —  had  red  coats,  or  black,  or  white, 


324  Next  to  the  Ground 

or  gay  red-and-white  blotched,  was  long- 
horned,  short-horned,  even  entirely  hornless. 
Young  calves  have  no  horns.  The  horns 
come  through  between  two  and  three  months 
old.  Muley  calves  —  properly,  polled  or 
hornless  ones  —  could  be  told  from  the  first 
by  the  high  bunchy  crest  of  long  hair  stand- 
ing up  pertly  between  the  ears.  The  scrub 
stock  was  the  same,  of  course  with  many 
dilutions,  and  much  intermingling,  the  pioneer 
Baker  had  driven  over  the  mountains  into 
Tennessee.  In  proof  now  and  again,  a  red 
cow,  or  a  white  one,  or  a  blotchy  brindle,  or 
a  white-faced  black,  dropped  a  calf  with  a 
pure  dun  coat,  like  the  dun  ever-so-many- 
times  great  grandmothers  which  had  come 
out  of  Carolina. 

Cows  do  not  forget  their  big  children  in 
the  delight  of  loving  and  licking  their  little 
ones.  Even  after  the  big  ones  have  calves 
of  their  own,  the  milky  mothers  moo  recog- 
nition and  lick  the  daughters  all  over.  That 
is  however  a  service  any  cow  will  perform 
for  a  herd-comrade  with  whom  she  keeps 
terms  of  amity  and  comity.  Considering 
how  blockily  a  cow  is  built  she  has  a  won- 
derful facility  in  reaching  all  over  herself  with 
her  tongue,  her  tail,  or  her  hoofs.  She 
scratches  herself  back  of  the  ears  and  under  the 
jaws,  with  deft  motions  of  her  hind  hoofs. 


The  Cow  325 

But  the  hoofs  overshoot  the  neck,  and  can- 
not reach  the  region  directly  between  the 
shoulders  —  elsewhere  along  the  back  and 
quarters  Sis  Cow  licks  herself,  at  the  appar- 
ent risk  of  dislocating  her  neck.  The  risk  is, 
however,  only  apparent.  She  can  and  does 
suck  herself,  if  she  chooses,  and  further  can 
both  lick  and  scratch  with  her  teeth  the 
root  of  her  tail.  But  the  face,  forehead, 
space  betwixt  the  ho'rns,  and  some  ten  inches 
of  backbone  where  neck  and  body  join,  must 
go  unlicked  unless  a  helping  friendly  tongue 
is  available.  When  shedding  their  coats  in 
the  spring  they  scratch  themselves  against 
any  handy  upright  —  tree,  fence  post,  house 
corner,  what  not.  By  turning  the  head  well 
around  they  can  flick  ofF  with  the  tail  a 
troublesome  insect  from  the  eyelid  —  one  bit- 
ing too  far  forward  to  be  touched  by  the 
hind  foot.  At  shedding  time,  and  indeed  all 
through  the  summer,  all  sorts  of  cattle  love 
to  find  a  dry  bare  spot,  either  sandy  or  dusty, 
and  paw  up  the  light  earth  all  over  them- 
selves, bellowing  faintly  as  they  do  it.  Three 
or  four  bulky  cows  around  the  same  spot, 
pawing,  kneeling,  seeming  to  bow  to  each 
other,  then  rise  and  try  to  dance,  is  a  sight 
as  grotesquely  humorous  as  any  in  all  the 
panorama  of  the  pastures. 

August  with  its  clouds  of  winged  stinging 


326  Next  to  the  Ground 

blood-suckers,  sends  cattle  to  the  refuge  of 
deep  still  pools,  or  deeper  stiller  thickets. 
There  they  stand  all  day,  hurrying  out  to 
feed  at  night,  or  rather  early  dawn,  when  the 
chill  of  the  dew  keeps  flies  and  mosquitoes 
inert.  Milk  cows  running  upon  rich  fresh 
pasture  fall  back  so  much  in  milk,  it  is  the 
part  of  wisdom  to  stable  and  feed  them.  A 
perfectly  dark  stable  protects  from  flies. 
Notwithstanding,  cattle'do  not  love  it.  Be- 
yond all  other  domestic  animals  they  keep 
the  tang  of  primal  savagery,  in  spite  of  hav- 
ing been  for  so  long  intimately  dominated  by 
humankind.  In  hot  weather  they  hate  to  be 
penned  at  night,  and  are  wily  enough  to  hide 
themselves  toward  sundown,  and  stand  per- 
fectly still  in  the  thickets  or  high  weeds, 
until  the  cattle-driver  has  passed  them  by. 
Bell  cows  have  a  hard  time,  but  manage  to 
avoid  sending  out  one  betraying  tinkle.  Old 
man  Shack's  cow  always  ran  out,  so  toward 
midsummer  he  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  bell- 
ing her  tail  instead  of  her  neck.  She  'd  be 
jest  natchully  bound  ter  make  er  racket  then, 
he  said  —  nothing  weth  a  tail  could  n't,  no 
tetch,  keep  hit  still,  weth  them  inseckses 
a-chawin'  an'  a-chawin'.  The  scheme  was 
brought  to  naught,  yet  with  some  approach  to 
poetic  justice.  Old  man  himself  undertook 
to  milk  the  cow,  and  got  the  belled  tail  so  fair 


The  Cow  327 

and  square  against  the  side  of  his  head,  it 
knocked  him  over  and  made  him  spill  all  the 
milk. 

Most  times  cattle  go  to  the  same  place  to 
sleep,  and  choose  for  it  the  highest  ground 
available,  unless  it  is  wholly  unsheltered. 
Cattle  turned  into  a  strange  pasture  run 
about  it,  snuffing  eagerly,  as  though  intent 
upon  finding  out  if  it  has  held  other  cattle.  • 
Almost  invariably  the  new  herd  sleeps  in  the 
same  place  the  old  one  did  —  that  is  suppos- 
ing it  is  an  established  cattle  run.  A  single 
cow  in  milk,  or  with  a  sucking  calf  at 
her  side,  can  lead  and  dominate  a  whole  herd 
of  beef  cattle.  At  sight  of  a  dog,  stirred 
perhaps  by  remote  memories  of  the  days 
when  there  were  wolves,  cattle  charge  down 
upon  him  in  mass.  Unless  he  gets  out  of 
their  way,  they  will  roll  and  trample  him  to 
death,  then  gore  the  carcass,  drooling  and 
bellowing.  Blood  scent,  especially  the  blood 
of  their  own  kind,  sets  them  crazy.  Even 
to  cross  the  trail  of  a  fresh  hide  dragged 
through  their  feeding-ground,  makes  them 
prance,  bellow,  and  make  leaping  plunges, 
lowering  the  head,  and  brandishing  the  horns 
as  they  come  down.  Bulls,  curiously  enough, 
are  not  so  fierce  over  scenting  blood  as  are 
cows.  Cows  with  young  calves  grow  most 
frantic.  It  is  unsafe  to  go  too  near,  either, 


328  Next  to  the  Ground 

while  the  phrenzy  rages  —  especially  if  any 
member  of  the  herd  has  an  old  score  to  pay. 
Cattle  keep  their  grudges  to  equal  Scotch 
highlanders.  Indeed  they  have,  throughout, 
long  memories,  and  are  apt  in  many  ways. 

Oxen  well  broken  are  driven  without  reins. 
They  go  to  right  or  left,  turn,  back,  hold 
back,  or  pull,  according  to  the  driver's  word 
and  the  cracking  and  tickling  of  his  keen 
black-snake  whip.  Ox-goads  are  unknown 
in  the  grass  country  of  Tennessee,  though 
they  are  in  scattered  use  in  the  mountains. 
Oxen  are  slow  but  mighty  —  good  for  every 
use  that  requires  steady  power  without  speed. 
Literally  they  learn  to  bear  the  yoke  in  their 
youth.  An  ox  running  unbroken  until  three 
years  old  would  be  ill  to  handle  and  worse  to 
drive. 

Joe  and  Dan  broke  a  yoke  of  oxen  every 
season  —  sometimes  two  yoke.  Yoke,  like 
couple,  requires  no  plural.  As  soon  as  the 
calves  were  weaned,  late  in  the  fall,  they 
matched  two  of  them,  made  a  light  yoke, 
penned  the  chosen  beasts,  fitted  the  ox  bows 
to  their  necks,  tied  their  tails  lightly  but 
strongly  together,  so  they  could  not  break 
their  necks  by  trying  to  face  each  other,  then 
made  a  rope  fast  about  their  horn,  and  drove 
them  throughout  the  Saturday  afternoon  holi- 
day. Before  loosing  the  yoke,  they  stroked 


The  Cow  329 

and  petted  the  calves,  gave  them  nubbins  of 
corn  —  nubbins,  understand,  are  short  ears, 
just  the  size  to  go  in  a  calf's  mouth  — 
rubbed  their  noses  over  with  a  rabbit's  foot, 
for  luck,  then  set  them  free  to  gallop  away 
and  bleat  their  tale  of  ill-usage  to  the  rest. 

After  two  or  three  such  afternoons  the 
calves  were  hitched  to  Billy-Boy's  truckle- 
wagon,  and  made  to  draw  it  without  a  load. 
A  truckle-wagon  is  somewhat  a  primitive 
vehicle,  yet  it  is  a  question  if  a  real  live  boy 
could  get  as  much  fun  out  of  the  finest  in  the 
shops  as  the  truckle-wagon  affords.  The 
wheels  are  solid  rounds,  four  inches  thick, 
sawed  from  the  butt  of  a  black-gum  log. 
They  tare  commonly  about  eighteen  inches 
across.  Then  the  truckle-wagon  is  good  for 
something.  With  wheels  a  foot  across,  it  is 
little  more  than  a  toy.  The  running  gear,  like 
the  wheels,  is  home-made  ;  the  axles  of  sea- 
soned oak,  with  nails  for  linch-pins.  There 
are  rocking  bolsters  that  do  not  rock  worth 
mentioning,  upright  standards,  and  a  box-body 
fitting  racketily  between  them.  The  body  was 
for  use  when  Billy-Boy  himself,  or  walnuts, 
or  bark  for  cake-baking  had  to  be  hauled. 
Serious  work,  —  such  as  fetching  a  barrel  of 
water  a-field,  or  a  barrel  of  cider  from  the 
orchard,  or  taking  the  scalding-tub  down  to 
the  creek,  when  hog-killing  was  afoot,  — 


33  o  Next  to  the  Ground 

required  only  the  standards  and  pretty  careful 
driving. 

The  driver  of  course  walked  beside,  as  be- 
fitted a  genuine  ox  team.  It  was  always  the 
two  or  three-year-old  oxen,  fairly  broken, 
and  toughened  to  work,  that  did  the  real 
truckle-hauling.  The  calves  might  have 
pulled  Billy-Boy,  or  even  Joe  himself,  easily. 
But  Joe  would  not  impose  upon  anything 
weak  and  young  —  and  as  for  risking  Billy- 
Boy  anywhere  there  was  the  least  danger  — 
you  could  not  have  hired  either  Joe  or  Dan 
to  think  of  that.  Billy-Boy  was  the  apple  of 
every  eye  at  White  Oaks.  Even  Patsy,  for 
all  she  was  so  up-headed,  delighted  in  his 
tyranny,  and  was  proud  to  be  ranked  the 
most  obedient  of  all  his  humble  subjects. 

Well-matched  oxen  working  for  years  in 
the  same  yoke  grow  pathetically  fond  of  each 
other.  They  feed  side  by  side  at  grass,  lie 
down  and  rise  up  together,  low  disconsol- 
ately if  by  chance  one  gets  out  of  sight,  and 
if  forcibly  separated,  sometimes  breach  the 
stoutest  fences  to  reach  one  another.  Ox 
feet  wear  to  the  quick  —  not  so  easily  as 
horses'  feet  do,  but  still  so  as  to  make  shoe- 
ing imperative  if  they  needs  must  travel  over 
rocks  either  to  the  wagon  or  plough.  An 
ox-shoe  is  a  queer-looking  plate  of  iron,  split 
like  the  hoof,  ill  to  make  fast,  not  so  easily 


The  Cow  331 

kept  in  place.  Unruly  oxen  must  be  thrown 
and  roped  stoutly  before  they  can  be  shod. 
Old  man  Shack  told  wonderful  tales  of  u  the 
fine  ridin*  oxen  he  had  often  an'  often  seed,  up 
in  the  mountings,"  but  Joe  was  unconvinced. 
He  did  not  doubt  in  the  least  that  some  moun- 
taineers rode  upon  oxen,  carrying  their  grist 
to  mill,  their  truck  to  town,  or  purely  for  the 
fun  of  it.  But  he  did  very  much  doubt  the 
pleasure  of  such  riding  —  from  all  he  knew 
of  cattle's  lumbering,  clumsy  motion,  he 
thought  it  must  be  ever  so  much  more 
tiresome  than  walking. 

Twin  calves  both  of  the  same  sex  grow 
up  strictly  normal.  But  a  heifer  calf  twin 
to  a  bull  calf  will  not  make  a  cow.  She  is 
called  a  free  martin,  and  almost  never  breeds, 
though  sometimes  she  gives  milk.  More 
generally  she  makes  a  fine  free-footed  plough- 
beast,  quicker  and  lighter-stepping  than  an 
ox.  A  yoke  of  free  martins,  indeed,  — 
though  such  a  thing  is  hard  to  come  by  — 
are  worth  almost  as  much  in  the  making 
of  a  crop  as  a  span  of  slow  mules. 

A  hungry  cow  has  quick  wits.  She  learns 
easily  to  lift  a  gate  latch  with  her  horns,  or 
lay  down  the  rails  of  a  fence  in  the  same 
fashion,  also  to  kneel,  thrust  her  head  and 
neck  through  a  low  slip-gap,  surge  upward 
with  her  shoulders,  and  thus  wreck  the  fence 


33 2  Next  to  the  Ground 

above,  even  though  it  be  stake-and-ridered. 
She  is,  further,  wise  enough  to  eat  in  and  in  at 
a  hay  or  straw  stack  in  bitter  weather,  until 
she  gnaws  out  a  snug  shelter  for  herself. 
She  has  her  likes  and  dislikes  among  bipeds 
and  quadrupeds:  standing — the  very  pattern 
of  bovine  content  —  to  be  milked  by  one 
hand  ;  snorting  and  kicking  the  minute  an- 
other hand  is  laid  upon  her  udder.  Dogs, 
in  general,  she  hates.  Shepherd  dogs  she 
tolerates,  because  she  knows  they  mean  no 
harm  —  besides,  they  are  so  persistent,  there 
is  no  use  in  trying  to  escape  them.  Among 
grazing  beasts  she  has  a  certain  awed  admira- 
tion for  horses,  an  amused  contempt  for 
mules,  toleration  of  a  sort  for  hogs,  and 
bitter  hate  for  sheep. 

Cattle,  indeed,  will  not  graze  freely  where 
sheep  have  fouled  and  nipped  the  pasture,  nor 
drink  where  the  wooly  gentry  have  roiled  the 
water.  This  is  partly  because  of  the  strong 
odor  —  an  ill  odor  —  sheep  leave  behind, 
partly  also  from  the  fact  that  sheep  graze  so 
close  even  a  rabbit  can  hardly  nibble  after  them 
until  they  have  been  three  days  away.  Cows 
have  an  odor  of  their  own,  nearly  as  strong 
as  the  sheep  smell,  and  pleasant  or  unpleasant 
largely  according  to  circumstance  and  state 
of  mind.  The  breath  of  cattle  running 
where  there  is  much  sweet  vernal  grass,  is 


The  Cow  333 

really  fragrant,  very  unlike  their  breath  when 
grazing  red  clover,  or  feeding  down  stubble 
or  aftermath. 

A  prodigal  son  or  daughter  —  otherwise  a 
stray  —  is  not  received  by  the  herd  when  he 
comes  home  as  becomes  a  fatted  calf.  In- 
stead, he  is  hustled  and  tussled  mightily, 
forced  to  his  knees,. beaten  with  many  horn- 
stripes,  before  he  establishes  himself  upon 
even  a  footing  of  toleration.  Even  more 
curious  is  the  way  herd  cattle  fight  among 
themselves,  when  turned  from  a  wonted  pas- 
ture eaten  bare  into  one  full  of  fat  pickings. 
The  plenteous  prospect  seems  to  go  to  their 
heads.  At  first  they  run  all  about,  bleating 
and  bawling  like  so  many  hungry  calves. 
They  snatch  tnouthfuls  between  bawls,  then 
all  at  once  set  to  locking  horns  in  twos  and 
threes,  butting,  pummelling,  overthrowing, 
rolling  the  overthrown  along  so  violently 
they  seem  in  danger  of  broken  bones.  The 
smaller  and  lighter  the  contestant,  the  greater 
is  his  spirit.  Two-year-olds  scramble  up, 
bleating  defiance  at  the  big  fellows  who  have 
downed  them,  brandishing  their  horns  mar- 
tially, and  pawing  up  earth  all  around.  After 
an  hour  or  so,  when  every  horn  of  them  has 
tried  conclusions  with  every  other  horn,  they 
settle  to  steady  feeding,  and  keep  the  peace 
until  the  time  of  the  next  new  pasture. 


334  Next  to  the  Ground 

All  animals  play  the  game  of  follow- my- 
leader.  Cattle  are  no  exception.  At  the 
shipping  points,  where  there  is  much  business, 
every  stockyard  has  or  had  its  trained  steer 
which  runs  nimbly  up  the  gangway  from  the 
stock-pens  to  the  car,  thus  luring  its  unwary 
fellows  to  the  beginning  of  doom.  One  such 
beast,  out  West,  was  said  to  have  placed  a 
half  million  fat  steers  aboard  the  trains. 
Since  after  it  all  his  end  was  beef,  there  may 
be  something  of  even-handed  justice  yet 
remaining  in  the  world. 


Feathered  Folk 


Chapter  XV 


FREAK  scientist  declares 
birds  taught  men  to  speak. 
Whether  or  no  he  is  right, 
it  is  a  fact  that  chickens 
talk.  Even  very  little 
chicks,  just  out  of  the  shell, 
have  three  separate  manners 
of  speech.  Cold,  hungry,  or  lost,  they  utter 
a  shrill,  piercing  peep,  oft-repeated  and  con- 
tinuous, until  they  are  either  comforted  or 
exhausted.  But  this  shrill  crying  can  change 
all  in  a  wink  to  a  soft  wit-twit-wit,  intensely 
full  of  satisfaction.  Sleepy,  chicks  tell  their 
mothers  or  keepers  of  the  fact  with  a  gurgling 
yeepl-leepl-lp,  yee-epl-lee-epl !  When  they 
cry  thus  in  the  brood,  if  the  mother  persists 
in  tramping  about  instead  of  hovering  them, 
the  biggest  and  boldest  of  the  flock  springs 
upon  her  back,  and  tries  to  huddle  down 
there,  though  he  is  physically  certain  to 
topple  off  the  next  minute.  Sometimes  two 


338  Next  to  the  Ground 

or  three  chicks  fly  up  at  once.  It  takes 
either  a  very  hungry  or  very  hard-headed 
hen  to  withstand  such  assault.  She  may 
keep  moving  for  a  few  yards,  but  is  sure  to 
end  by  settling  down,  spreading  her  wings, 
and  drawing  in  her  neck,  the  while  crooning 
content,  as  her  babies  run  underneath  her 
and  nestle  little  heads  against  the  warmth 
of  her  bare  breast. 

Brooding  hens  strip  their  breasts  the  better 
to  warm  their  eggs.  Twice  a  day  they  turn 
each  egg  completely  over  so  the  warmth  may 
be  equal.  They  sit  very  close  to  the  eggs, 
but  bear  no  weight  upon  them,  any  more 
than  they  do  upon  their  living  chicks.  Just 
how  it  is  managed  it  is  not  easy  to  say,  but 
in  hovering  their  broods  hens  do  not  sit  flat 
down  as  they  do  asleep  on  the  perch.  They 
poise  their  bodies  mysteriously  so  as  to  come 
within  an  inch  or  so  of  the  ground,  then 
drop  the  wings,  curtain-wise  around  the  edges. 
The  bigger  the  brood,  the  more  the  wings 
spread,  but  the  loosening  is  the  same  with 
one  chick  or  with  twenty.  Very  big  broods 
as  they  grow  into  the  estate  of  spring  chicken- 
hood,  huddle  about  their  mother,  well  content 
if  they  can  get  their  heads  in  anywhere  about 
her.  Fall  broods,  which  are  carried  very 
much  longer  than  spring  ones,  indeed  often 
make  the  hen  look  a  feathered  freak  with  one 


Feathered  Folk  339 

big  head  and  very  many  pairs  of  small  legs 
treading  in  every  direction. 

Normally  hen  eggs  hatch  in  three  weeks. 
In  very  warm  weather,  the  chicks  may  come 
out  in  twenty  days.  If  the  eggs  were  old 
before  brooding  began,  they  may  require 
twenty-two  days.  After  that,  though  chicks 
may  be  alive  inside  the  shell,  they  are  too 
feeble  to  break  out.  A  chick  lies  coiled  into 
the  neatest  possible  oval  inside  the  shell,  and 
pips  it,  that  is  to  say  breaks  it,  by  pressing  the 
point  of  his  beak  strongly  outward  against  it. 
The  whiff  of  air  that  goes  through  the  first 
pip  and  sets  the  chick  to  breathing,  strengthens 
it  to  turn  itself  slightly,  so  as  to  bring  the 
beak  against  a  new  space  of  shell.  After 
this  is  broken  there  is  further  turning;.  Five 

O 

pips  commonly  break  the  shell  in  two  unequal 
cups.  The  beak  comes  somewhere  towards 
the  middle. 

It  is  dangerous  to  try  helping  out  a  weakly 
chick.  The  turning  in  the  shell  has  a  use 
other  than  that  of  breaking  out.  Eggs  are 
lined  throughout  inside  with  a  fine  white 
silken  membrane.  In  hatching,  blood-vessels 
develop  all  through  this  membrane,  and  the 
blood  is  oxygenated  in  them  by  means  of  air 
coming  through  the  pores  of  the  shell,  to 
feed  and  form  the  growing  embryo.  These 
blood-vessels  center  in  a  sort  of  umbilical 


340  Next  to  the  Ground 

cord,  which  the  turning  twists  loose  so 
gradually  as  to  prevent  hemorrhage.  A 
chick  just  hatched  is  not  pretty  —  it  sprawls 
and  spraddles,  sways  a  weak  head  from  side 
to  side,  and  wears  a  wet  coat,  depressingly 
clammy  to  the  touch.  But  three  hours 
of  mother  warmth  make  it  quite  another 
creature.  The  coat  dries  to  the  softest  silky 
down,  the  eyes  grow  bright,  the  head  is 
pertly  erect  —  if  placed  upon  a  plane  surface 
Master  Chicky  makes  the  funniest  clumsy 
staggers  at  walking,  stretching  his  winglets 
in  the  attempt  to  balance  himself,  exactly  as 
a  baby  balances  with  his  arms  before  the 
first  step. 

Indeed  there  is  no  prettier  sight  in  all  the 
life  of  the  farmlands  than  a  nest  whose 
maker  has  discharged  the  whole  duty  of  a 
hen.  Brooding  twenty  eggs,  she  has  probably 
hatched  seventeen.  There  may  have  been 
a  difference  of  twenty-four  hours  in  the  time 
of  hatching.  With  the  eldest  of  her  children 
running  up  over  her  back  and  beginning  to 
cheep  hunger,  she  knows  it  is  time  to  go  off 
with  her  brood.  So  she  steps  out,  clucking 
and  scowling.  The  nest  may  be  three  feet 
above  ground,  but  she  will  get  every  chick 
that  is  dry  out  of  it,  no  matter  how  feeble. 
If  any  are  just  coming  out  of  the  shell,  and 
cry  pitifully  as  they  miss  her  warm  breast, 


Feathered  Folk  341 

she  stays,  clucking  very  hard,  occasionally 
going  back  on  the  nest,  then  hopping  off,  to 
join  the  little  balls  of  fluff  crying  on  the 
floor. 

If  instead  of  thus  coming  off  herself  she  is 
taken  off  by  the  hen-wife,  she  will  scowl 
mightily,  even  squawk,  and  peck  so  as  to 
draw  blood  from  the  hand  slipped  under  her 
wing  to  lift  her.  Hens  with  game  blood  fly 
furiously  at  whatever  comes  near  the  nest, 
after  the  first  week  of  brooding.  The  heavy 
eastern  breeds  —  Shanghai,  Brahma,  Cochin, 
and  their  derivatives,  such  as  Plymouth  Rock 
—  are  very  gentle,  hardly  even  scowling  when 
lifted  off.  Leghorn  and  Black  Spanish  are 
so  fond  of  egg-laying  they  will  not  hatch  out 
a  clutch  of  eggs,  except  in  very  rare  cases. 
To  make  up  for  that,  they  scowl  and  peck 
if  touched  while  laying.  Brooding  hens  seem 
to  think  it  is  both  a  right  and  duty  to  claim 
every  egg  within  reach.  They  stretch  the 
head  into  adjoining  nests,  clutch  the  egg  under 
their  beaks  against  the  breast,  and  thus  roll 
it  into  their  own  nests.  They  will  also  often 
call  enticingly  to  other  hens  laying  close  by, 
and  endure  almost  any  amount  of  crowding 
while  the  laying  hen  deposits  her  fresh  egg 
along  with  the  rest.  Some  few  hens  fight 
off  such  intrusion,  and  if  it  continues,  will 
even  quit  the  nest.  But  hens  in  the  mass  are 


342  Next  to  the  Ground 

hard  to  break  from  the  nest,  whether  laying 
or  sitting.  A  brooding  hen  deprived  of  eggs 
or  the  chickens  she  has  hatched,  will  some- 
times starve,  sitting  upon  the  rocks  with 
which  her  nest  has  been  filled.  Hens  some- 
times choose  to  lay  upon  top  of  a  beam  or 
a  big  bough  in  a  tall  tree,  and  continue  to 
do  it,  although  each  egg,  as  soon  as  laid,  falls 
and  is  smashed  before  their  eyes.  Hens 
begin  laying  at  from  six  to  nine  months  old. 
The  average  of  egg-production  in  the  common 
barnyard  fowl,  is  something  less  than  five 
hundred,  distributed  over  four  years'  time. 
After-  that  age,  hens  lay  but  sparingly  in 
spring  and  fall.  A  laying  runs  anywhere  be- 
tween eleven  and  nineteen,  in  most  breeds. 
Leghorn  and  Black  Spanish  lay  sometimes  as 
high  as  forty  eggs  without  checking,  and  two 
hundred  within  the  year. 

Brooding,  a  hen  lets  herself  go,  and  be- 
comes a  slattern  of  deepest  dye.  Though  she 
dusts  herself  in  earth  or  ashes  whenever  she 
comes  off  to  feed  —  usually  once  in  thirty- 
six  hours — that  is  a  precaution  against  ver- 
min. She  does  not  preen  and  place  her 
rumpled  feathers,  while  as  for  oil,  they  know 
it  not.  Commonly  a  fowl's  coat  is  oiled  in 
part  each  day.  The  oil-bag  lies  at  the  root 
of  and  in  front  of  the  tail  feathers.  It  is  a 
round  gland  with  a  queer  little  upstanding 


Feathered  Folk  343 

nipple  at  the  top.  The  beak  squeezes  oil 
out  of  this  nipple,  and  spreads  it  deftly  over 
the  plumage,  thus  keeping  up  gloss  and  color. 
Oil-secretion  stops  while  a  hen  broods.  All 
her  vitality  goes  in  warmth  to  enliven  the 
eggs  underneath  her.  It  is  the  same  while 
she  carries  young  —  she  must  warm  as  well 
as  feed  and  look  out  for  them.  Her  comb  is 
pale,  her  feet  look  pinched,  her  feathers  fade 
and  grow  draggled,  as  she  runs  clucking 
about,  keeping  a  weather-eye  for  hawks  — 
so  ware  indeed  of  the  danger  which  cometh 
out  of  the  air  she  often  gives  the  grating  cry  of 
warning  that  sends  her  brood  scuttering  to 
cover,  at  the  chance  flutter  of  a  kite,  or  even 
the  darkening  of  a  quick  cloud. 

She  has  somewhat  of  weather  wisdom,  but 
is  without  discretion.  Though  she  hovers 
her  brood  as  the  first  raindrops  fall,  she 
does  not  know  enough  to  keep  them  dry  and 
quiet  until  the  fall  has  soaked  in  the  earth. 
Instead,  as  soon  as  rain  ceases  she  marches 
about,  her  draggled,  unhappy  brood  peeping 
at  her  heels,  and  maybe  drowns  half  of  them 
in  hidden  small  pools  or  high  wet  grass. 
Chickens  drown  very  easily  even  after  they 
are  full-feathered,  yet  full-grown  fowls  thrive 
best  when  permitted  to  roost  outdoors.  Fur- 
ther their  manner  of  feeding  foretells  the 
length  of  a  summer  shower.  If  they  keep 


344  Next  to  the  Ground 

on  pecking  grass  it  will  be  short  —  if  they 
run  to  cover  and  sing  disconsolately  there, 
look  out  for  a  rainy  day. 

A  hen  begins  clucking  at  the  first  touch 
of  broodiness,  and  keeps  on  clucking  until 
she  weans  her  young  family.  The  clucks 
are  individual,  loud  or  low,  soft  and  muffled, 
or  spitefully  sharp.  They  have  need  to  be, 
since  it  is  through  them  the  broods  differenti- 
ate their  mothers.  How  the  hens  know  their 
own  chicks  from  all  other  chicks,  even  those 
of  the  same  age,  size,  and  markings,  is  among 
nature's  mysteries  —  but  know  them  they  do. 
Hence  often  pitiful  tragedies — little  tender 
downy  bodies  cruelly  pecked  to  death,  little  soft 
heads  crushed  and  bloody,  and  all  because  of 
a  quite  pardonable  mistake.  Scent  has,  it  is 
likely,  much  to  do  with  it,  since  if  a  strange 
chick  can  be  smuggled  under  the  spitefullest 
of  hens  while  she  sleeps,  she  will  be  apt  to 
mother  it  in  the  morning.  But  there  are  cases 
in  which  hens  will  kill  even  a  chick  of  their 
own  hatching,  if  by  chance  it  falls  under  ban. 
One  hen,  a  speckled  top-knot,  whose  own 
proper  eggs  nearly  always  hatched  out  pert 
brown-striped  little  fellows,  tolerated  the 
brown-striped  chicks,  would  steal  every 
white  one  she  could  entice  from  another 
brood,  and  kill  instantly  a  black  chick,  either 
in  her  own  brood,  or  which  tried  to  follow  her. 


Feathered  Folk  345 

The  more  shrewish  and  spiteful  toward 
the  rest  of  the  world,  the  better  mother  to 
her  own  brood  a  hen  is  likely  to  be.  She 
calls  them  loudly,  joyously  to  feed,  catching 
up  the  food  in  her  bill,  and  dropping  it 
among  them  with  a  back-and-forth  move- 
ment of  her  under  jaw.  She  does  not  peck 
a  mouthful  until  the  little  fellows  are  well 
through  eating  —  this  of  course,  the  proper 
hen-mother  —  there  are  greedy  sluggards  all 
too  many.  She  scratches  out  worms  and 
chases  down  bugs  industriously,  beats  the 
worm  to  death  and  deprives  the  bugs  of 
stings,  wings  and  legs,  and  hard  scales,  then 
calls  her  young  to  eat  —  which  they  do  by 
seizing  the  prey  among  them,  tugging  back- 
ward one  against  the  others  until  they  rend 
it,  when  they  gobble  each  his  share,  stretch- 
ing their  necks  as  the  morsel  goes  down,  and 
chirping  satisfaction  after.  Often  before 
seizing  hold,  the  chicks  eye  the  prey,  and 
back  away  from  it,  with  little  chir-r-s  of  fear 
or  amazement.  As  they  grow  up  the  chir-r 
develops,  as  an  immature  cackle,  the  voice  of 
wonder  rather  than  of  fright. 

In  spring  heartless  hens  sometimes  abandon 
a  three-weeks  brood.  Yet  the  very  same 
hens  will  carry  fall  chickens  three  months. 
Seven  weeks  is  about  the  average  time  of 
mothering.  Sometimes  the  weaning  is  grad- 


Next  to  the  Ground 

ual.  More  commonly  it  comes  all  at  once. 
There  is  delicious  comedy  in  watching  a  hen 
who  has  made  up  her  mind  and  body  to  quit 
her  brood.  She  calls  them  with  intense  ear- 
nestness to  feed  upon  imaginary  worms,  then 
when  they  stand  looking  bewilderedly  for  the 
titbit  they  feel  sure  has  escaped  them,  she 
runs  off  as  fast  as  her  legs  can  carry  her, 
making  believe  she  is  after  a  grasshopper  or 
butterfly.  The  chicks  follow  her  —  she 
wheels  and  runs  again.  Some  of  them  run 
back  to  hunt  the  mythical  worm.  Others 
keep  at  her  heels,  but  half  a  dozen  fruitless 
runs  disgust  them  —  they  begin  to  peck  upon 
their  own  account,  paying  no  further  heed  to 
a  parent  so  erratic.  Slyly,  with  infinite 
caution,  she  slips  away,  runs  down  the  fence 
side,  hunts  a  favorite  wallowing  place,  drops 
into  it,  and  throws  up  clouds  of  fine  earth 
with  wings  and  claws,  all  the  while  pecking 
the  earth  in  front  of  her.  When  she  gets 
up  she  shakes  herself  vigorously  two  or  three 
times,  slips  away  to  some  shady  covert,  and 
begins  to  preen  and  oil  herself  for  maybe  the 
first  time  in  three  months. 

Somehow  she  works  a  miracle.  The  coat 
so  faded,  so  draggled  it  was  fairly  disreput- 
able, gets  gloss  and  color.  The  feathers 
properly  placed  hide  all  the  ragged  spots. 
Primly  folded  wings  give  an  air  of  tailor- 


Feathered  Folk  347 

made  elegance,  wonderfully  set  off  by  a  comb 
grown  suddenly  coral-red.  Her  neck  frill 
and  breast  are  objects  of  Madame's  special- 
est  arts.  Carrying  her  brood  she  has  walked 
with  her  head  well  forward,  neck  somewhat 
outstretched.  Now  that  she  is  re-entering 
feathered  high  society,  she  holds  her  head 
high,  and  very  well  back,  breast  protruding, 
and  tail  so  pertly  upright,  it  comes  within  a 
hand's-breadth  of  the  comb.  A  toilet  so 
elaborate,  of  course,  takes  time.  It  may  be 
late  afternoon  before  Madame  goes  singing 
down  the  yard,  flaunting  her  tail  as  she  walks, 
and  glancing  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye  at  the 
most  gorgeous  cock  on  the  place.  Presently 
when  he  finds  a  worm,  and  calls  softly 
"  Co-cuk-oo  !  Co-cuk-co  !  Cuk-oo-cuk- 
oo !  "  she  runs  with  the  rest  of  the  hens, 
and  sidles  toward  him,  her  head  coquettishly 
turned.  If  he  gives  her  a  little  peck  she 
receives  it  as  an  endearment  —  though  cocks 
have  been  known  to  punish  roundly  hens 
that  had  abandoned  downy  callow  broods. 

Weaned  chicks  well  feathered  seldom  miss 
their  mothers  until  night.  Then  indeed  they 
set  up  a  pother,  calling  and  peeping  wildly. 
It  happens,  sometimes  that  the  peeping  calls 
the  mother  back  to  them.  Oftener  she  stays 
upon  a  high  perch,  and  salves  her  conscience 
by  clucking  to  them,  though  she  knows  well 


34 8  Next  to  the  Ground 

they  cannot  come  up  to  her.  If  a  pole  is 
set  to  lead  up  to  the  perch  she  may  go  teeter- 
ing up  and  down  it,  clucking  and  evidently 
trying  to  show  her  late  family  the  way  they 
should  also  go.  Flying  comes  by  nature  to 
a  chick.  He  will  stretch  his  wings  and 
attempt  it  before  he  has  the  sign  of  a  pin- 
feather,  though  the  pinfeathers  start  at  three 
days  old.  But  walking  up  to  a  height  makes 
his  head  swim  —  at  least  until  he  has  mas- 
tered the  art  of  balancing.  He  gets  on  well 
enough  upon  the  pole  until  he  looks  below  — 
then  he  falters,  turns  to  go  down,  and  ends 
commonly  in  a  fluttering  fall. 

A  cock  is  not  vain  glory's  emblem  —  he  is 
vain  glory's  self.  Any  court  accepting  his 
testimony  can  easily  prove  that  fine  feathers 
make  fine  birds.  Yet  he  is  not  without  re- 
deeming features.  The  game  cock  is  cour- 
age made  manifest  in  flesh  and  feathers. 
He  fights  purely  from  the  love  of  it,  when 
the  spirit  moves  him.  A  sort  of  plumed 
Berserker,  he  has  fits  when  he  must  fight  or 
die.  Fight  and  die  is  perhaps  the  better 
phrasing.  Oft-times  two  birds  of  this  tem- 
per keep  battling  all  day  long,  stopping  only 
for  scant  breathing-spells,  and  at  last  mak- 
ing an  end  of  each  other.  In  fighting,  the 
wings  are  dropped  so  as  to  bear  hard  on  the 
earth,  the  neck  feathers  ruffled  until  the 


Feathered  Folk  349 

head  is  almost  like  John  the  Baptist's  on  a 
charger.  A  pure-bred  game  fowl  should 
have  no  white  quills  in  his  wings.  A  white 
feather  there  indicates  a  discreditable  out- 
cross.  Hence  the  phrase  "  to  show  the 
white  feather,"  whose  obvious  application  all 
the  world  knows. 

Cocks  of  any  breed  are  gallant,  and  to  a 
degree  industrious,  although  hardly  to  the 
degree  beseeming  persons  of  so  many  wives. 
However,  family  cares  sit  light  upon  their 
crests.  They  have  nothing  to  do  but  crow, 
look  handsome,  and  make  a  pretence  of 
scratching  out  worms  or  chasing  down  fat 
grasshoppers  for  their  wives.  It  is  only  a 
pretence  —  indulged  in  mainly  to  awaken  ago- 
nized jealousy  in  the  breasts  of  the  other 
cocks.  Often  after  calling,  calling,  for  ten 
minutes,  until  half  the  hens  are  round  about, 
each  hoping  for  the  worm  held  high  in  the 
caller's  bill,  that  fine  gentleman  bolts  the 
worm  himself,  then  looks  about  as  though  to 
say :  "  See  how  magnificently  just !  I  have 
allowed  each  of  you  inferior  creatures  to  wit- 
ness the  refreshment  of  your  lord  !  " 

Turkey  eggs,  and  duck  eggs,  which  are 
much  bigger  than  hen  eggs,  and  guinea  eggs, 
which  are  very  much  smaller,  all  hatch  out 
in  twenty-eight  days.  Goose  eggs,  biggest 
of  all  laid  by  domestic  fowl  —  hatch  in  thirty 


350  Next  to  the  Ground 

to  thirty-three  days.  Goose  eggs  are  pure 
white,  and  of  an  almost  perfect  oval.  Duck 
eggs  are  pale  sky-green,  so  pale  they  look 
white  in  some  lights,  and  rounded  at  both 
ends.  Ducks  lay  their  eggs  either  at  dawn 
or  just  before  it.  Puddle  ducks  make  no 
nests,  dropping  the  eggs  where  they  roost. 
Guinea  eggs  are  sharply  oval,  with  a  shell 
several  times  as  thick  as  that  of  a  hen  egg, 
and  in  color  a  delicate  yellowish-brown.  A 
turkey  egg,  three  times  as  big  as  a  guinea  egg, 
is  also  sharply  oval,  with  a  thin  fine  white 
shell,  richly  freckled  all  over  with  brown 
freckles,  light  or  dark.  Ducks  lay  only  in 
spring,  from  twenty-five  to  fifty  eggs.  Geese, 
also  spring  layers,  produce  from  ten  to  fifteen 
each.  Guineas  begin  laying  about  mid-May, 
and  keep  on  until  September,  if  the  eggs  are 
taken  duly  from  the  nest.  If  the  eggs  re- 
main, the  guinea  hen  sits  when  she  has  laid 
twenty  or  twenty-five.  Guineas  are  to  a 
degree  monogamous  —  almost  strictly  paired 
where  the  sexes  are  equal.  But  plural  wives 
among  them  lay  in  the  same  nest  —  which  is 
made  as  far  a-field  as  possible.  While  a 
guinea  hen  is  laying,  her  mate  perches  upon 
a  near-by  stock  or  stone,  and  shouts  a  defiant 
"  Ch-che-ch-ch-ze-ze-che-che-ee  !  "  to  all  the 
world.  Both  sexes  have  another  cry,  inter- 
preted in  the  farmlands  as  u  Pot  Rack !  Pot 


Feathered  Folk  351 

Rack !  "  Save  and  except  by  their  crying  the 
males  and  females  are  indistinguishable. 
They  are  singular  among  fowls  in  that  they 
can  scent  any  tampering  with  the  nest.  If 
eggs  are  taken  from  it  with  the  bare  hand, 
they  will  at  once  quit  it,  but  if  all  but  the  nest 
egg  be  dipped  out  with  a  spoon,  they  will  lay 
on  indefinitely. 

At  White  Oaks,  the  turkeys  were  Black 
Mammy's  special  charge,  with  Patsy  next  in 
authority.  O  but  the  turkey  hens  were  sly 
creatures  !  They  nested  in  the  woods  lot  — 
Mrs.  Baker  believed  in  keeping  them  as  near 
the  natural  state  as  possible.  Along  towards 
the  middle  of  February,  when  the  hens  began 
to  yelp  mornings  and  evenings,  the  big 
bronze  gobblers  to  strut  half  the  day,  holding 
wings  hard  as  they  strutted,  and  turning  their 
red  wattles  to  livid  blue,  Black  Mammy 
knew  it  was  time  to  be  hunting  eggs.  Patsy 
wondered  no  little  why  the  gobblers  as  they 
strutted  let  fall  their  snouts,  like  veils,  dang- 
ling away  down  below  the  beak-tips  well 
upon  the  breast.  She  wondered  too  why  the 
Lord  chose  to  give  them  such  tufts  of  stiff 
black  beard  underneath  their  chins.  The 
beards  were  certainly  not  pretty,  nor  any  use 
as  she  saw  things.  Mammy  explained  that 
they  really  had  a  use  —  without  them  an  old 
gobbler  would  not  know  himself  from  a 


3  <J  2  Next  to  the  Ground 

young  one.  The  beards  came  oat  the  first 
winter  and  got  two  inches  long.  They  were 
three  inches  the  second  winter  —  after  that 
truly  patriarchal.  The  gobblers  were  very 
high-mightiful  toward  the  hens,  ruffling  and 
shouting  at  them,  almost  from  the  minute 
they  swallowed  their  morning  corn.  But  the 
hens  did  not  seem  to  mind  in  the  least. 
They  had  a  way  of  setting  one  wing  upon 
the  other  above  the  back,  flirting  the  tail,  and 
going  exactly  when  and  where  they  pleased. 

Watching  them  to  the  nest  was  fine  and 
ticklish  work.  As  certain  as  you  let  them 
see  you,  they  led  you  a  merry  dance.  A  hen 
starting  for  her  nest  left  the  flock,  pretending 
to  feed  away  for  maybe  fifty  yards,  then  set 
ofF,  running,  in  almost  a  contrary  direction. 
She  doubled  more  than  once  in  the  course 
she  laid,  and  if  she  knew  herself  followed, 
went  directly  from  the  nest,  scratched  out  a 
false  nest  beside  a  log,  or  likely  brier  clump, 
and  squatted  down  in  it,  never  moving  until 
she  was  satisfied  she  had  tricked  the  watchers. 
When  they  were  safe  away,  she  fluttered  up, 
and  half  flew,  half  ran  towards  the  real  nest, 
hurriedly  laid  her  egg  beside  the  others,  got 
up,  picked  up  leaves  with  her  bill,  and  filled 
the  nest  until  every  egg  was  hidden,  then  ran 
home,  yelping  at  the  very  top  of  her  voice. 

Covering  the  eggs  is  a  remainder  from  the 


Feathered  Folk  353 

wild  state,  also  a  wise  provision  against  theft 
by  crows.  A  hungry  crow  indeed  is  the 
most  patient  and  most  stealthy  of  all  watch- 
ers to  the  nest.  A  watcher  of  any  sort  must 
beware  the  gobbler  no  less  than  the  hen.  If 
the  gobbler  catches  sight  of  you  he  sends  a 
special  hoarse  warning  after  the  nesting  hen. 
When  Black  Mammy  and  Patsy  heard  that, 
they  turned  and  went  straight  home,  waiting 
there  until  another  hen  began  to  yelp  —  then 
they  set  out  upon  a  fresh  and  more  strategic 
hunt.  Once  a  nest  was  found  they  did  not 
disturb  its  maker,  but  marked  the  place,  and 
went  back  to  it  later,  to  take  out  the  eggs  and 
leave  instead  of  them  a  hen  egg.  So  long  as 
it  stayed  for  nest  egg,  the  turkey  would  keep 
on  laying.  At  first  she  laid  every  other  day, 
but  towards  the  end,  every  day.  Two  hens 
were  commonly  set  upon  the  eggs  laid  by 
three.  Turkey  hens  were  not  so  very  hard 
to  break  from  brooding.  Two  days  in  the 
coop,  with  plenty  of  stimulating  feed  usually 
put  the  nest  out  of  their  minds.  In  a  week 
they  would  be  laying  again,  but  the  eggs 
were  whiter,  and  of  thinner  shell,  besides 
seldom  more  than  eleven  in  the  clutch.  A 
hen  broken  from  sitting  a  second  time,  often 
stole  a  nest  in  September,  and  if  she  escaped 
minks  and  foxes,  came  up  with  a  peeping 
brood  of  half  a  dozen  just  after  frost.  These 


354  Next  to  the  Ground 

winter  turkeys  could  be  raised  by  taking 
pains,  but  they  were  always  so  stunted,  never 
half  the  size  of  the  spring  hatch  —  they  did 
not  pay  for  the  trouble. 

Heavy  thunder  just  as  the  eggs  were  ready 
to  hatch  often  killed  a  whole  brood  in  the 
shell.  Like  all  other  beaked  young  creat- 
ures, turkeys  have  a  very  sharp  small  triangle 
of  horn  at  the  tip  of  the  beak,  whose  use  is 
to  chip  the  shell.  It  can  be  pinched  off  with 
the  thumb-nail.  Mammy  always  pinched  it 
off —  she  said  to  make  the  turkeys  healthy. 
She  also  always  made  them  swallow  a  whole 
black-pepper  corn,  the  minute  they  were  out 
of  the  nest.  For  the  first  thirty-six  hours 
turkeys  are  the  most  delicate  of  all  young 
fowls  —  after  that,  with  proper  care,  they 
thrive  amazingly.  At  a  week  a  healthy 
poult  will  eat  his  own  weight  in  fresh  clabber 
three  times  a  day.  But  salt  is  poison  to 
them.  Black  Mammy  let  her  mother  tur- 
keys go  free  as  air,  but  kept  the  young  ones 
secured  in  three-cornered  pens  of  twelve-inch 
plank  set  edge-wise,  changing  the  pen  to  a 
spot  of  clean  earth  every  morning. 

The  mothers  did  not  go  far,  and  the  young 
were  kept  from  straying.  Young  turkeys 
have  an  insensate  habit  of  running  off  after 
anything  in  motion,  even  though  they  leave 
their  mothers  to  do  it.  Their  wing  feathers 


Feathered  Folk  355 

grow  very  quickly  —  at  ten  days  old  they 
could  fly  out  of  the  pens  at  pleasure,  and  go 
off  with  their  mothers  to  range  and  run  in 
the  wheat.  Major  Baker  insisted  upon  rais- 
ing all  the  turkeys  possible  because  they  were 
so  helpful  in  the  time  of  tobacco  worms. 
Mammy  had  commonly  seventy-five  fine  fel- 
lows, tall  enough  when  the  August  glut  of 
worms  came,  to  pick  worms  from  all  but  the 
topmost  leaves.  There  were  ducks  too  —  but 
the  trouble  with  them  was  to  keep  them  from 
the  water.  If  they  got  to  the  creek  they  ate 
the  corkscrew  shelled  periwinkles,  and  died 
of  indigestion.  Patsy  wanted  geese,  but  the 
Major  would  have  none  of  them  —  they  ate 
too  much  grass,  and  grazed  too  close,  he 
said,  besides  murdering  sleep. 

These  are  the  feeding-calls,  and  pseudo- 
nyms for  young  poultry,  in  large  part  at- 
tempts to  imitate  their  own  cries.  At  the 
chicken  coop:  "Coo  Chick!  Coo  Chick! 
Coo-oo  Chick!!  Cluck!  Cluck!  Run! 
Run!  Ru-un!  Chick-ee !  Chick-chick! 
Chickee ! "  At  the  turkey  pen,  or  in  the 
edge  of  the  wheat:  "Pee!  Pee!  Pee-ee ! 
Co-pee!  Co-pee!  Pee-pee !  Pee-pee ! " 
Young  turkeys  and  sometimes  old,  are  famil- 
iarly pee-pees,  not  "  deidees  "  —  as  some 
writing  folk,  who  should  know  better,  try 
to  make  it  appear.  Deidees  are  truly  young 


356  Next  to  the  Ground 

ducks,  from  the  call  which  runs  :  "  Ducky- 
diddle !  Ducky-diddle!  Diddle-did'l  Deed'l- 
deed'l-deed'l !  Ducky-diddle  Quawk  !  Quack! 
Quack  !  "  It  is  not  a  close  second  to  the  little 
duck's  wheedling  chatter,  yet  neither  wholly 
unreminiscent  of  it.  That  is  also  true  of  the 
guinea  call  :  «  Widdie  !  Widdie  !  Wi-iddie  ! 
Widdie !  "  Young  guineas  are  so  small,  so 
shy,  withal  so  pretty,  they  look  much  more 
like  game  birds  than  any  sort  of  domestic 
fowl. 

Brooding  turkeys  and  guineas  are  somewhat 
slovenly  in  appearance,  yet  less  so  than  a 
brooding  hen.  Indeed  a  brooding  hen  is  not 
only  unkempt  but  seemingly  out  of  love  with 
life,  herself,  all  things.  She  ruffs  her  neck, 
scowls,  and  drops  her  wings  as  she  runs  mo- 
mentarily off  the  nest,  fights  all  the  prim, 
pretty  pullets,  also  other  hens  like  herself. 
Turkeys,  which  usually  leave  the  nest  only 
once  in  three  days,  go  away  from  it  with  a 
hopping,  flopping  flight,  and  repeatedly 
stretch  the  wings,  one  after  the  other,  over 
the  back.  But  they  do  not  show  ill-temper 
—  that  is  the  prerogative  of  hens.  While  a 
goose  sits  the  gander  keeps  ward  over  the 
nest,  ruffling,  hissing,  and  pecking  viciously 
at  anything  living  which  comes  near.  If  the 
attacked  runs,  so  much  the  worse  for  it. 
The  gander  is  after  it,  beating  it  with  strong 


Feathered  Folk  357 

wings,  and  pecking  to  draw  blood,  his  vicious 
blue  eyes  snapping  all  the  while.  Blue-eyes 
are  among  the  gander's  dear  distinctions,  but 
he  is  proud  in  proportion  to  the  spotlessness 
of  his  white  coat,  and  tyrannic  to  his  geese 
in  proportion  as  they  are  gray. 

Live  geese  can  be  plucked  of  merchant- 
able down  every  six  weeks  between  April 
and  October.  The  down  is  picked  from 
the  breast  and  underneath  the  wings.  The 
pickers  must  have  a  care,  though,  not  to  pluck 
a  ridge  of  down,  called  the  bolster,  growing 
where  the  wings  join  the  body.  If  they  do, 
the  geese  cannot  hold  their  wings  up,  but 
move  with  them  hanging  uncomfortably  until 
the  bolster  grows  again.  A  well-fed  goose 
yields  yearly  a  pound  of  feathers. 

All  domestic  fowls  moult  between  the  last 
of  July  and  mid- September.  Apparently  the 
process  of  getting  new  clothes  is  exhausting, 
even  if  they  do  not  have  to  fight  with  mo- 
distes and  tailors.  Eggs  in  the  moulting  sea- 
son are  as  scarce  as  the  proverbial  hen's 
teeth  —  that  is,  eggs  fresh-laid.  Turkeys  are 
the  least  disconsolate  among  the  fowls,  but 
even  with  them,  the  gobblers  cease  from 
strutting  and  lose  their  big  rolling  voices. 
Cocks  crow  languidly  right  in  each  other's 
faces  without  provoking  the  ghost  of  a  fight. 
Both  cocks  and  hens  cackle  upon  the  least 


35  8  Next  to  the  Ground 

provocation,  or  none  at  all,  but  it  is  a  cracked 
unbalanced  cackling,  thin  and  reedy,  half- 
way through,  then  suddenly  pitched  three 
keys  lower.  Upon  rainy  days  the  whole 
fowlyard  gather  in  open  sheltered  spaces,  as 
in  a  shed,  or  underneath  a  high-set  outhouse, 
stand  each  upon  one  foot,  with  the  head  sunk 
between  the  shoulders,  uttering  now  and  then 
a  sleepy  croon,  and  never  venturing  out  in 
the  rain  unless  hard  pressed  by  hunger. 

Nature  orders  all  things  wisely.  When 
her  feathered  children  are  thus  under  stress 
she  spreads  for  them  the  richest  table  of  all 
the  year.  Grain,  grass,  and  weed  seed,  ten- 
der green  stuff,  fruits,  bugs,  worms,  slugs, 
caterpillars,  grasshoppers,  butterflies,  all 
abound,  to  tempt  and  to  refresh.  They  help 
in  bringing  every  manner  of  fowl  to  the 
glory  of  span-new  feathers,  gorgeously  irides- 
cent, red  combs,  and  shiny  well-oiled  boots. 
Even  rumpless  chickens,  which  are  born 
without  tails,  hence  seem  always  the  patterns 
of  subdued  and  ill-used  humility,  become  to 
a  degree  high  and  saucy,  in  early  October. 
Better  made  cocks  crow  and  fight,  hens  flaunt 
and  sing  aloud,  turkeys  vaingloriously  strut 
and  gobble,  guinea  fowl  smooth  and  preen 
their  fine  spotted  plumage,  stretch  their  curi- 
ous topknots  to  the  utmost,  and  keep  stren- 
uous watch  and  ward.  In  that  they  are 


Feathered  Folk  359 

better  than  the  keenest  watch-dog.  Nothing 
can  stir  about  the  place  between  dawn  and 
thick  darkness  without  setting  them  into  vig- 
orous cry. 

But  one  creature  indeed  is  more  wary  — 
the  thrice  gorgeous  peacock.  His  vigilance 
is  not  limited  to  daylight.  Any  time  in  the 
night,  if  he  hears  a  noise  within  a  mile  of  his 
perch,  he  sends  his  unearthly  cry  ringing  far 
and  wide.  There  is  a  story  in  Tennessee 
of  an  old-time  gentlemanly  counterfeiter 
who  kept  flocks  of  peacock  sentinels  and  for 
twenty  years  defied  detection,  though  he 
worked  in  his  own  house,  set  fair  to  view 
not  so  far  off  the  big  road.  Peacocks  roost 
always  in  the  highest  trees  about.  Only  the 
cock  has  the  long  gorgeous  many-eyed  greeny- 
blue  tail.  The  tail  comes  out  at  three  years 
old,  and  is  thus  the  sign  of  maturity.  Hens 
have  modest  and  symmetrical  tails  of  rufous- 
brown  feathers  matching  their  coats,  though 
full  grown  they  have  metallic  blue-green 
breasts  and  neck  ruffs.  A  strutting  peacock 
is  the  sum  and  pattern  of  feathered  pride,  yet 
if  by  chance  he  glances  down  at  his  insignifi- 
cant feet,  the  cart-wheel  tail  falls  instantly, 
and  its  owner  slinks  out  of  sight.  When 
the  tail  feathers  are  plucked,  the  despoiled 
owner  of  them  runs  away,  and  hides  for 
several  days.  He  will  indeed  sometimes 


360  Next  to  the  Ground 

refuse  to  eat.  By  way  of  consoling  him  the 
despoilers  tie  long  strips  of  soft  rag  lightly 
around  his  legs,  so  they  may  stream  out 
behind  him.  Whether  fear  of  them  diverts 
his  mind,  or  he  looks  upon  them  as  the  very 
latest  mode,  ever  so  much  more  stylish  than 
mere  feathers,  nobody  can  decide.  But  the 
fact  remains  that  he  does  often  look  over  his 
shoulder  to  see  them  trailing  after,  also  that 
with  them  he  gets  back  to  his  normal  poise 
of  vanity  very  much  earlier  than  without. 


Insects 


Chapter  XVI 


m     tne 

ways  of  the  Egyptians 
tell  us  that  contradictory 
people  deiiied  and  built 
monumental  temples  to 
the  scarabeus.  The  Egyp- 
tians made  a  mistake  — 
there  is  another  insect,  which  deserves  much 
better  of  humanity  than  the  scarab  —  this 
upon  the  counts  of  use  and  beauty.  It  is 
the  snake-doctor,  which  those  unfortunates 
who  are  merely  book-wise  call  the  dragonfly. 
The  book-wise  people  have,  however,  this 
justification.  Snake-doctor  is  a  name  of  wide 
and  variable  application,  given  in  many 
mouths  indiscriminately  to  the  true  snake- 
doctor,  the  dragonfly,  and  the  gorgeous  hell- 
gramite-fly,  whose  larva  is  known  variously 
as  hellgramite,  hellbender,  or  dobson,  and  is 
further  an  aquatic  prowler,  and  the  most 
killing  lure  for  trout. 


364  Next  to  the  Ground 

That  has,  however,  little  to  do  with  the 
true  snake-doctor's  claim  to  consideration. 
It  is  well  to  increase  the  number  of  trout 
men  may  eat,  but  ever  so  much  better  to 
diminish  the  number  of  musquitoes  which 
do  eat  men.  Musquitoes  lay  their  eggs  in 
clumps  like  fairy  boats,  or  loose  chain-clusters, 
upon  the  surface  of  stagnant  water.  The 
female  musquito  is  the  bloodthirsty  one. 
She  is  bigger  and  stronger  than  the  male,  and 
altogether  the  executive  end  of  the  family. 
She  lays  eggs  by  the  hundred  —  eggs  which 
hatch  and  mature  so  rapidly  she  may  be  a 
great-grandmother  many  times  over  in  course 
of  a  summer.  A  very  little  figuring  shows 
how  she  would  overrun  and  possess  the  land 
if  there  were  not  checks  and  balances.  Her 
eggs  hatch  into  that  minute  but  writhing  entity 
the  wiggle-tail,  the  liveliest  pest  of  ponds  and 
standing  rain  water  generally.  The  wiggle- 
tail  is  not  without  its  uses  —  few  things  are, 
in  nature's  grand  economy.  It  feeds  mainly 
upon  things  invisible  to  the  naked  eye,  and 
thus  clears  its  pool-haunts  of  things  worse 
even  than  itself.  By  and  by  it  becomes  a 
pupa  which  changes  to  the  perfect  musquito. 
The  pupa  is  light  enough  to  float  quite  at  the 
surface.  When  the  lava  skin  bursts  to  let 
the  new  musquito  out,  there  is  an  instant  of 
ticklish  balancing  before  the  creature  gets  its 


Insects  365 

wet  wings  fairly  spread.  If  by  chance  the 
water  roughens  at  that  exact  moment  there 
is  an  end  of  one  particular  musquito.  Mus- 
quitoes  may  be  semi-immortal,  but  they  are 
not  even  demi-semi-aquatic,  after  they  get 
their  wings. 

Now,  Mrs.  Snake-doctor  —  Princess  Drag- 
onfly, just  which  you  please  —  also  lays  her 
eggs  either  in  water  or  hard  by  it,  upon 
herbage  likely  to  sink  into  the  pool.  The 
eggs  hatch  under  water  into  fierce  and  lively 
wrigglers,  which  prey  upon  wiggle-tails  and 
much  else,  moult  several  times,  and  end  by 
changing  to  a  nymph,  from  which  in  the  end 
the  perfect  dragonfly  comes  out. 

There  are  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
dragonflies  —  more  than  a  lazy  person  would 
like  to  count.  White  Oaks  dragonflies  were 
of  two  sorts  —  in  color  either  iridescent 
blackish-green,  or  still  more  iridescent  black- 
ish-brown. They  had  long,  round,  slender 
bodies  swelling  lumpishly  where  the  wings 
were  set  on,  stout  heads,  and  voracious 
mouths.  The  wings  were  their  chief  beauty 
—  two  on  each  side,  gauzy,  glittering,  three 
parts  as  long  as  your  finger,  and  full  of  lace- 
like  veinings  richly  dark.  For  all  the  wings 
are  so  gauzy-glittering  they  are  incredibly 
strong  in  flight.  They  bear  the  snake-doctor, 
almost  with  the  speed  of  a  bullet,  far  and 


366  Next  to  the  Ground 

wide  over  woodlands,  pastures,  and  meadows, 
though  still  his  favorite  hunting-ground  is 
the  neighborhood  of  pools.  True  to  inherited 
instinct,  he  hunts  musquitoes,  also  midges, 
gnats,  May-flies  and  such  small  deer,  seizing 
them  upon  the  wing  and  bolting  them  as 
he  flies.  Hence  the  name  —  dragonfly,  after 
the  mythical  dragons  —  St.  George's,  for 
example  —  which  caught  and  devoured  their 
enemies  as  they  flew  abroad.  A  cant  name 
for  the  dragonfly  is  gnat-hawk,  or  musquito- 
hawk  —  but  who  would  ever  think  of  setting 
it  beside  snake-doctor?  Negroes  say  the 
snake-doctor  is  called  on  to  help  snakes 
cast  the  skin — especially  the  skin  of  head 
and  eyes,  which  the  snake-doctor  picks  off. 
Further,  in  August,  when  the  black  people 
believe  that  all  venomous  snakes  go  blind, 
the  snake-doctor  is  thought  to  lead  them  to 
water,  and  to  distil  into  their  eyes  dew 
gathered  from  certain  plants  and  so  full  of 
their  virtues  it  brings  back  sight. 

Possibly  the  belief  grows  out  of  the  fact 
that  it  is  to  the  wet  and  marshy  places  be- 
loved of  snake-doctors  many  snakes  choose 
to  go  when  ready  to  cast  the  skin.  Joe  did 
not  believe  the  snake-doctors  had  anything 
to  do  with  it,  but  Patsy  said  if  the  books  told 
the  truth  about  the  snake-doctors,  they  had 
changed  their  own  skins  so  many  times  and 


Insects  367 

fitted  on  such  different  new  ones,  they  ought 
to  know  a  great  deal  about  the  way  to  do  it. 

People  much  more  learned  than  Patsy  are 
in  doubt  over  the  locust  —  the  cicada  of 
Greek  poets,  indeed  of  poets  generally. 
Some  spell  his  name  cicala  —  perhaps  be- 
cause they  accept  Ruskin's  saying  that  the 
first  essential  of  poetry  is  untruth.  The 
name  has,  however,  little  to  do  with  wise  in- 
certitude —  that  hinges  upon  the  question  of 
whether  the  true  locust  period  is  seventeen 
years.  Records  show  seventeen-year  broods 
and  thirteen-year  broods.  The  wise  men 
divide  upon  the  question  whether  the  two  are 
the  same,  with  the  period  of  development 
shortened  by  climate.  The  thirteen-year 
broods  are  oftenest  seen  in  south-lying 
regions.  There  is  also  a  biennial  cicada  — 
but  Joe  and  Patsy  knew  nothing  of  the  differ- 
ence. If  they  had  known  they  would  not 
have  cared.  Possibly  through  overlapping 
broods  there  were  locusts  at  White  Oaks 
every  year —  sometimes  very  many,  some- 
times very  few. 

Locusts  begin  existence  in  the  shape  of 
fine  pearly  eggs,  very  much  smaller  than 
grains  of  mustard  seed.  These  eggs  the 
mother-locust  lays  in  woody  substance  of 
some  kind,  preferably  growing  twigs  and 
bark.  She  saws  the  twigs  through  to  the 


3 68  Next  to  the  Ground 

pith  with  a  pair  of  fine  saws,  specially  pro- 
vided. The  egg-laying  is  done  from  mid- 
summer forward,  and  after  it  is  finished  the 
mother-locust  dies. 

Young  locusts  are  tiny  creatures,  but 
worm-like  and  lively  in  wriggling.  Safe  in 
earth  they  live  through  long  years,  feeding 
first  upon  grass  roots,  and  later  when  they 
have  strength  to  burrow  deeper,  sucking  the 
feeding  rootlets  of  trees  and  shrubs.  Several 
times  they  cast  the  skin  after  the  manner  of 
wriggling  things.  By  and  by  they  change 
from  worms  to  bugs  —  bugs  with  many  legs, 
very  big  horn-shielded  eyes,  and  roughish, 
horny  coats.  In  this  form  they  occasionally 
venture  above  ground,  but  quickly  run  back 
again.  After  a  while  comes  another  change. 
This  time  it  is  to  the  nymph,  whose  vacant 
horny  shell  scattered  thickly  all  about  is  the 
hall-mark  and  sign  manual  of  a  true  locust  year. 

As  to  how  long  a  nymph  remains  a 
nymph,  the  wise  men  say  it  depends  —  de- 
pends upon  breed,  season,  and  environment. 
A  proper  nymph  possibly  takes  note  of  time 
only  from  its  loss  —  it  is  too  fully  occupied 
with  grubbing  about,  and  sucking  juice  from 
the  roots  for  day  or  night  dreams.  But  by 
and  by,  when  the  time  comes,  it  dreams  to 
good  purpose.  Then  some  fine  night  it 
begins  a  furious  tunnelling  upward.  And 


Insects  369 

about  daybreak  some  finer  morning  there  is  a 
round  hole  in  the  earth's  surface,  a  hole  more 
than  half  an  inch  across  and  running  down 
to  deeps  unknown.  Something  crawls  out 
of  it  —  a  horny  russet-yellow  creature  with 
six  legs  each  ending  in  two  sharp  hooks 
reflexed  like  a  fish-hook.  Its  impulse  is  still 
to  go  higher.  It  crawls  up  something  firm, 
as  a  post  or  wall  or  tree-trunk,  sometimes 
going  ten  feet  above  the  earth.  Once  sure 
it  is  high  enough,  it  sinks  in  its  hooked  feet 
as  firmly  as  possible,  and  waits. 

Presently  the  horny  back  cracks  open.  It 
parts,  at  first  almost  imperceptibly,  but  still  it 
parts.  After  an  hour  a  new  creature  shows 
inside  the  parting.  It  is  dark  and  wet,  and 
before  long  begins  to  bulge  outward.  By 
looking  close  you  see  that  the  hooked  feet 
are  holding  against  considerable  strain.  It  is 
the  locust,  no  more  a  nymph,  pulling  itself 
together  before  launching  itself  on  the  new, 
wide,  sunlit  world.  By  and  by  the  head 
shows,  the  eyes  of  it  peeling  off  their  horn 
coverings  as  though  they  were  outworn 
glasses.  Fore  legs,  pushed  gingerly  out,  un- 
fold and  stretch  themselves  to  rig  a  purchase 
upon  the  horny  shell.  There  is  a  sort  of 
surge  when  the  wings  come  through  the 
crack.  They  are  not  the  glancing  wings 
that  a  little  later  will  charm  ah1  eyes,  but 


37°  Next  to  the  Ground 

lumpy  and  damply  clotted  from  very  tight 
packing.  Another  pair  of  legs  follows  the 
wings,  then  the  pointed  tip  of  the  body,  and 
last  of  all,  the  strong  hind  legs. 

The  coming  out  is  a  marvel,  but  less  mar- 
vellous than  the  aftergrowth.  Before  it  flies 
the  new-born  insect  grows  visibly.  Nymphs 
may  measure  something  over  an  inch  in 
length — the  locust,  full-fledged,  is  twice  as 
long  and  three  times  as  broad  as  its  abandoned 
shell.  As  the  insect  dries,  a  fine  iridescent 
down  shakes  out  all  over  its  body — the 
unfolding  wings,  stretched  with  infinite  care, 
quiver  gently  as  air  is  forced  into  their  veins 
and  ribs.  Long  before  men  invented  pneu- 
matic tires  nature  was  putting  the  same  sort 
of  thing  into  the  stiffening  of  her  myriad 
gauzy  summer  wings. 

By  and  by  the  wings  cease  to  quiver,  and 
wave  gently  back  and  forth.  Eyes  harden 
to  endure  the  light,  antennae  unfold.  Before 
midday  there  is  a  perfect  locust  ready  to  sail 
away  through  the  summer  air,  to  sip  dew 
and  honey  and  the  spilled  juices  of  ripe  fruit, 
sport  through  happy  days  in  the  sun,  mate 
and  die,  chanting  to  the  last  the  stridulous 
chant  of  midsummer.  When  one  considers 
its  active  life  one  ceases  to  wonder  that  the 
Greeks,  wise  in  all  earth-wisdom,  held  it  the 
happiest  of  created  things. 


Insects  371 

Joe  and  Patsy  loved  the  locust  song,  and 
dared  each  other  often  and  over  to  get  up 
early  enough  to  watch  them  break  out  of  the 
shell.  But  somehow  there  were  always  so 
many  other  early-morning  things  to  do,  they 
hardly  ever  got  round  to  it.  Still  they  were 
distinctly  on  the  locust's  side,  even  when  they 
were  plenty  enough  to  spoil  the  fishing.  Fish 
worth  catching  would  not  take  other  bait 
when  they  had  all  the  locusts  they  could 
eat  for  the  swallowing.  Before  the  locust 
dropped  too  plentifully  into  the  streams,  Joe 
sometimes  caught  a  big  fish  by  putting  a 
locust  delicately  upon  his  hook,  and  dancing 
it  lightly  over  deep  still  water.  Old  man 
Shack  shook  his  head  over  such  fishing  — 
"  hit  wus  er  clean  da'ar  ter  Provydence,"  he 
said.  "  Locusses  wus  knowed,  well-knowed, 
ter  be  pi'son,  and  besides  nigh  kin  ter  witches. 
Else  how-come  it,  in  the  Bible  they  wus  sent 
ter  eat  outen  house  an'  home  them  thar 
nigger-kings  that  would  n't  let  the  Childern- 
'f-Isruul  go  —  not  no  tetch  ?  An',  furdermo', 
that  wus  how-come  it,  they  could  kill  trees 
by  jest  a-stingin'  of  'em,  up  ter  yit.  As  fer 
fruit, —  well,  er  baby  knowed  hit  wa'nt  never 
safe  ter  eat  no  sort  o'  hit,  in  er  plumb  locus' 
year." 

The  blacks  had  quite  the  same  beliefs,  and 
even  greater  dread  of  the  locusts.  They  told 


372  Next  to  the  Ground 

weird  tales  of  boys  and  girls  poisoned  by  eat- 
ing "  locusted  blackberries,"  or  mulberries, 
or  plums,  or  peaches.  But  Joe  and  Patsy 
laughed  at  the  tales,  ate  all  the  fruit  they 
wanted,  and  were  never  the  worse  for  it. 
The  reason  may  have  been  that  they  kept 
themselves  too  busy  and  too  happy  to  think 
of  falling  ill.  Day  time  or  night,  there  was 
always  something  to  entertain  them.  The 
lamps  were  no  more  than  lighted,  for  example, 
before  there  were  all  sorts  of  things  flying  in. 
All  of  them,  of  course,  had  to  be  looked  at, 
but  what  delighted  the  children  most  were 
the  ponderous  black  things  they  called  Betty 
bugs. 

The  Bettys  were  bigger  and  solider  than 
any  other  flying  things  they  knew.  Some  of 
them  were  oval,  or  rather  terrapin-shape,  and 
quite  as  big  as  small  terrapin.  Others  were 
longish,  and  nearly  as  broad  at  the  head  as 
through  the  body.  These  long  gentlemen 
had  curious  crescent-shaped  horns  projecting 
either  side  from  their  foreheads.  They  were, 
further,  jointed  a  little  less  than  half  way 
their  length.  Long  or  oval,  the  Bettys  had 
hard  shells,  glossy,  as  black  as  charcoal,  and 
finely  ridged  up  and  down.  They  sailed  in 
almost  straight  to  the  light,  veered  wildly, 
flew  round  and  round,  then  bumped  against 
walls  or  ceiling,  and  came  croppers  on  the 


Insects  373 

floor.  If  the  rounded  ones  fell  on  their  backs 
they  could  not  turn  themselves,  but  lay,  legs 
up,  kicking  stupidly  until  Patsy  swept  them 
up  on  the  shovel  and  tossed  them  into  outer 
darkness.  Some  of  these  were  nearly  three 
inches  long,  and  so  heavy  they  plopped  like 
clods  in  falling.  They  had  fine  brown  gauze 
wings,  which,  except  in  flying,  they  kept 
snuggly  tucked  within  the  cupped  black  shell. 
Patsy  always  ran  the  minute  she  heard  a  fall 
—  she  liked  to  see  the  Betty  draw  in  its 
wings  and  tuck  them  in  place,  though  she 
was  sure  the  cupped  shell  must  be  as  clumsy 
and  heavy  as  was  the  armor  a  knight  wore 
back  in  the  old  days.  Occasionally  she  turned 
a  Betty  right  side  up,  in  hope  to  see  it  spread 
its  wings  and  fly.  But  the  Bettys  disappointed 
her;  instead  of  flying,  they  scuttled  for  cover 
as  fast  as  strong  legs  could  carry  them. 

The  long  Bettys  could  right  themselves; 
they  were  not  quite  so  heavy  as  the  broad 
ones.  But  if  a  fall  stunned  them,  or  lamed 
them  a  bit,  they  feigned  death,  after  the 
manner  of  their  poor  kinsmen  the  tumble- 
bugs.  You  had  but  to  touch  one  of  the 
tumble-bugs,  rolling  his  malodorous  ball,  ever 
so  lightly,  to  have  him  drop  motionless. 
Then  you  might  turn  him  upon  his  back, 
and  by  watching  five  minutes,  see  him  right 
himself,  and  either  go  on  with  his  ball  or 


374  Next  to  the  Ground 

spread  his  wings  from  beneath  his  cupped 
outer  coat,  and  fly  away.  There  was  an  egg 
inside  each  of  the  balls  he  rolled.  When  he 
got  it  where  he  thought  it  would  be  safe,  he 
dug  a  hole  with  his  round  flat  spade-head, 
rolled  the  ball  inside,  filled  up  the  hole  with 
loose  dirt,  and  flew  off  to  begin  work  over 
again.  After  the  beetle  fashion,  his  outer 
shell  was  turtle-shaped,  divided  across  the 
middle  where  the  waist  might  be  thought  to 
lie,  with  the  lower  half  hinged  and  split 
lengthwise  up  the  middle.  The  earliest 
tumble-bugs  were  dull  black  all  over,  then 
came  fine  fellows  green  throughout  the  upper 
half,  and  later,  gorgeous  gentlemen,  golden- 
green  all  over.  The  gorgeous  gentry  were 
less  industrious  than  the  black  fellows  —  at 
least  in  the  matter  of  rolling  balls.  They 
made  balls  all  right  enough,  but  commonly 
buried  them  very  close  to  where  they  found 
them,  whereas  the  blacks  sometimes  rolled 
balls  over  a  hundred  yards. 

Golden  green  tumble-bugs  grew  plenty  just 
as  June-bug  time  came  on.  Thus  the  black 
people  had  a  color  of  reason  for  believing  as 
they  did  that  the  June  bugs  were  tumble-bugs 
transfigured.  The  June  bugs  had  rich  green 
coats,  with  lacy  wings  hidden  underneath, 
and  legs,  breasts,  and  throats  of  the  finest  yel- 
low. They  haunt  gardens  and  cornfields  in 


Insects  375 

myriads,  and  have  a  curious  trick  of  clinging 
together  in  stair-step  clusters,  often  six  or 
seven  long.  Captive,  they  buzz  like  mad. 
The  black  children  caught  the  June-bugs  by 
handfuls,  tied  strings  to  their  hind  legs,  then 
let  them  fly  the  length  of  the  strings,  to  hear 
the  buzzing  which  they  call  "Junein'." 
They  also  called  the  bugs  "  Juney-bugs," 
and  ran  about  with  a  dozen  on  the  same 
string  flying  above  their  heads,  and  shouting 
as  they  ran  :  "  Juney  bug  !  Juney  bug  !  Fly 
'way  wid  me  !  " 

Billy-Boy's  nurse  always  let  him  June  a 
big  cluster  —  at  the  end  of  a  very  long  string. 
Neither  Joe  nor  Patsy  ever  touched  them 
with  bare  hands  —  not  that  they  feared  them 
—  it  was  only  that  the  June-bugs  looked  so 
like  the  unclean  tumble-bugs.  What  the 
June-bugs  ate  nobody  knew  —  unless  they 
really  fed  with  the  tumble-bugs.  They  spent 
their  time  for  the  most  part  stair-stepping  on 
the  under  side  of  corn  blades,  and  staying 
motionless  for  hours.  Yet  they  did  not 
seem  to  mind  sunlight,  often  flying  right  out 
into  it,  if  they  flew  at  all.  Thus  they  were 
unlike  most  of  the  corn's  insect  haunters. 
Moths  abound  there.  One  of  them,  a  strict 
night-flier,  gave  Joe  and  Patsy  heaps  of  occu- 
pation. It  was  as  big  as  a  hummingbird, 
with  blackish  gray  wings,  two  on  each  side, 


376  Next  to  the  Ground 

a  hollow  honey-sucking  beak  as  long  as  your 
little  finger,  prominent  eyes,  a  thick  black 
velvety  body,  and  two  rows  of  gorgeous 
orange  spots  down  either  side.  The  children 
called  it  a  tobacco-fly,  and  waged  war  on  it 
with  might  and  main. 

The  war  was  singular  in  that  there  was 
reason,  even  a  color  of  justice,  back  of  it. 
Tobacco-worms  are  so  much  the  pest  of  to- 
bacco fields,  if  once  they  get  beyond  control 
in  a  week  they  can  bring  the  whole  year's 
crop  to  naught.  They  are  hatched  from 
little  clear  white  eggs,  which  the  tobacco-fly 
lays  numerously  on  the  broad  leaves.  At 
first  they  are  no  bigger  than  a  cambric  needle. 
Notwithstanding,  they  quickly  manage  to  eat 
a  passway  through  the  leaf,  and  shelter  them- 
selves from  the  sun  under  its  under  side. 
At  a  day  old  they  have,  maybe,  made  a  hole 
the  size  of  your  little  finger  tip.  At  a  week 
old  they  are  as  big  as  the  finger  itself,  and 
quite  capable  of  devouring  half  a  leaf  in 
twenty-four  hours.  Now  since  a  tobacco 
plant  has  but  eight  leaves  or  ten  at  the  most, 
and  may  have  from  two  to  one  hundred 
worms  upon  those  leaves,  it  becomes  evident 
that  here  is  a  struggle  —  with  the  chances 
favoring  the  survival  of  the  unfittest,  that  is 
to  say,  the  worms. 

Worms   are  what  make  eternal  vigilance 


Insects  377 

the  price  of  fine  tobacco.  Sometimes  a  field 
is  hail-beaten  out  of  commercial  quality,  the 
leaves  bruised  and  riddled  until  it  looks  to  be 
badly  worm-eaten.  "  Green  hail "  is  thus  a 
cant  name  for  worms,  specially  applicable  if 
they  are  slothfully  permitted  to  ruin  a  promis- 
ing field.  The  worms  have  sharp  horns  at 
the  tail  —  hence  are  also  called  horn  worms. 
They  are  green,  with  lighter-green  markings 
along  the  back,  round  heads  full  of  strong 
teeth,  and  many  legless  feet.  If  disturbed 
in  their  feeding  after  they  are  well  grown, 
they  raise  the  head,  grit  the  teeth  audibly  and 
eject  a  big  drop  of  acrid  brownish  fluid,  the 
juice  of  the  green  tobacco.  They  come  in 
u  gluts  "  —  that  is,  in  special  numbers.  The 
first  glut,  hatched  early  in  July,  is  from  eggs 
laid  by  flies  that  were  worms  last  year. 
The  worms  went  deep  in  the  ground  just 
after  frost,  changed  themselves  to  blackish- 
gray  shiny  "jug-handle "  chrysalids  and  lay 
dormant  until  the  spring  sun  was  hot  enough 
to  hatch  them  under  the  earth  blanket. 

Since  the  destruction  of  a  pair  of  flies 
means  the  prevention  of  five  hundred  worms, 
Major  Baker  set  a  price  on  flyheads,  and 
paid  it  cheerfully.  Further,  he  helped  his 
emissaries  all  he  could  in  the  work  of  de- 
struction. Tobacco-flies  feed  daintily  upon 
dew  and  honey.  The  early  hatch  haunted 


37  8  Next  to  the  Ground 

the  flower  borders  and  honeysuckle  trellises 
all  through  June,  hovering  momently  to 
rifle  roses  and  lilies,  but  in  the  end  returning 
to  the  long-throated  blossoms  whose  sweets 
the  bees  could  not  reach.  Joe  and  Patsy 
also  haunted  the  flowers  of  evenings.  The 
flies  came  out  after  sundown,  and  the  children 
grabbed  at  them  until  it  was  pitch  dark,  or 
long  after,  if  the  moon  shone.  They  pulled 
off  and  strung  the  flyheads,  and  there  was 
sharp  rivalry  as  to  which  should  show  the 
most.  They  got  double  price  for  these 
early  heads,  since  each  of  them  meant  many 
thousand  fewer  worms  in  the  dreaded  "August 
glut."  Eggs  for  the  August  glut  are  laid  by 
flies  hatched  from  June  or  July  worms.  The 
full  moon  of  August  is  the  really  trying  time. 
Flies  are  plentiest  then,  also  most  active,  and 
forsake  the  garden  blossoms  for  those  of  field 
and  waste. 

To  destroy  these  fine  summer-hatched 
legions  was  the  end  of  jimson  weed  plantingo 
Books  make  it  Jamestown  weed,  or  datura 
stramonium,  but  the  farmlands  know  it  only 
as  jimson  weed.  The  weeds  were  planted 
along  the  turn  rows,  also  in  convenient 
clumps  about  the  fields.  They  must  have 
felt  the  world  a  bit  upside  down,  at  finding 
themselves,  the  weediest  of  weeds,  neither 
plucked  up,  nor  hewn  down,  but  tended  and 


Insects  379 

coaxed  to  full  blowth  with  the  very  nicest 
care.  The  first  long  white  frilly-edged 
trumpets  came  out  on  them  when  they  were 
no  more  than  knee-high,  but  towards  the 
last  they  grew  taller  than  your  head,  and 
correspondingly  branchy.  Every  flower  they 
opened  was  poisoned  at  sunset  after.  Joe 
and  Patsy  tramped  about,  armed  with  long- 
necked  quill-stoppered  bottles,  full  of  cobalt 
mixed  in  honey,  and  shook  drops  of  it  deep 
in  the  flower-hearts.  Next  morning  they 
came  again  to  snip  off  the  poisoned  blossoms 
—  if  left  to  wither,  the  poison  ran  down  the 
stalk  and  killed  the  plant.  With  half  a  dozen 
blooms  to  the  weed  it  was  no  great  task,  but 
when  the  blooming  was  fairly  on,  and  fifty 
opened  upon  each  plant,  it  was  something 
considerable.  Since  it  is  so  considerable,  a 
wildly  inventive  genius  has  sprung  upon 
tobacco-growing  communities  an  imitation 
jimson  bloom  of  staring  white  glass,  which 
can  be  tied  to  a  stick,  and  poisoned  once  for 
always,  but  the  planters  rarely  insult  the 
intelligence  of  their  enemies  with  a  make- 
shift so  crude. 

A  cent  each  for  dead  flies  is  no  great  price, 
but  what  with  doubling  on  the  early  ones, 
between  snatching  and  poison,  Joe  and  Patsy 
turned  a  veiy  pretty  penny.  Major  Baker 
let  them  do  the  work  because  it  required  in- 


380  Next  to  the  Ground 

telligence  and  the  strictest  attention.  He 
never  haggled  in  settlements,  and  allowed 
liberally  for  the  poisoned  flies  which  died  too 
far  ofFto  be  counted.  He  only  smiled  when 
old  man  Shack  said,  "  the  Majer  he  wus  jest 
a-baitin*  them  thar  p'ison  inseckses  ter  come 
in  droves  ter  the  terbaker  patch  an*  eat  the 
crap  plumb  ter  the  stalk."  The  Major  could 
afford  to  smile  when  he  found  himself  getting 
through  the  August  glut  without  the  bother 
and  expense  of  hiring  extra  hands. 

Unless  the  poisoned  blooms  had  been  cut 
and  buried,  the  bees  might  have  got  at  them, 
with  very  bad  results  in  poisoned  honey. 
Bees  can  suck  poison  almost  with  impunity. 
They  produce  both  wax  and  honey  from  the 
sweets  they  suck.  Throughout  the  summer, 
bees  feed  largely  upon  pollen  mixed  with 
a  very  little  honey.  The  mixture  is  the 
"  bee-bread,"  with  which  the  brood-comb  of 
a  hive  is  filled. 

A  swarm  has  but  one  mother  —  the  queen, 
who  lays  all  the  eggs.  The  drone-fathers  do 
no  work,  creeping  listlessly  about,  and  feed- 
ing on  stored  honey  until  after  the  eggs  are 
laid.  Then  the  working  bees,  all  rudimen- 
tary females,  fall  upon  the  drones,  sting  them 
to  death,  and  drag  them  outside  the  hive. 
Thus  it  appears  that  the  little  busy  bee  is 
not  a  pattern  of  filial  excellence,  any  more 


Insects  381 

than  of  several  other  virtues  with  which  she 
is  mistakenly  accredited.  Industry,  for 
example.  Bees  get  out  of  the  way  of  laying 
up  honey,  if  they  can  find  a  weaker  hive  to 
plunder.  Plundering  is  indeed  so  universal 
an  instinct,  and  so  well  recognized  among 
bees,  every  swarm  has  a  few  guards  whose 
business  it  is  to  watch  the  hive  and  at 
once  sting  to  death  any  stray  bee  that  creeps 
into  it. 

Bees  also  lose  industry  in  the  time  of 
cider-making,  if  that  process  lasts  longer  than 
a  day.  They  hum  and  buzz  around  the 
mills  or  the  trough,  swarm  over  the  pomace, 
and  end  by  getting  gloriously  drunk  as  the 
cider  gets  hard.  They  will  cluster  thick 
along  the  edge  of  an  open  bucket,  sucking, 
sucking,  until  sometimes  when  they  try  to  fly 
away,  they  either  tumble  helplessly  to  the 
ground,  or  describe  zigzag  somersaults 
infinitely  diverting.  They  will  also  feed 
supinely  upon  shallow  pans  of  sugar  and 
water  set  conveniently  near,  though  richly 
flowered  fields  and  woods  may  invite. 

Still  they  are  active,  and  fine  workers  if 
they  must  be.  In  early  spring,  when  the 
plum-blossoms  swell,  the  first  flowers  are  not 
open  before  the  bees  begin  to  haunt  them. 
It  is  the  same  with  the  peach  trees.  There 
the  bees  show  discrimination.  Unrifled,  a 


382  Next  to  the  Ground 

peach  blossom  has  a  drop  of  clear  honey  at 
the  heart  almost  as  rich  as  any  the  bees  them- 
selves secrete.  To  secure  so  great  a  prize 
the  bees  crawl  laboriously  up  and  down  the 
stalks,  and  over  and  around  each  swelling 
bud,  seeking  to  thrust  a  head  within  the 
richly  incurved  petals,  as  soon  as  they  begin 
to  unroll.  Often  the  honey-gatherer  succeeds, 
and  sucks  the  drop,  herself  hidden  by  the 
pale  pink  petals.  Peach  bloom  is  singular  in 
that  it  does  not  fade,  but  deepens  as  it  falls. 
Fresh  blossoms  are  little  more  than  flesh-pink 
and  shed  petals  richly  crimson. 

A  swarm  is  a  strict  monarchy,  though  it  is 
questionable  if  the  queen  mother  is  not  rigor- 
ously held  by  constitutional  limitations.  It 
appears  that  bee  royalty  is  wholly  a  matter  of 
nurture.  The  workers  prepare  special  cells, 
a  little  larger  than  the  rest  for  rearing  young 
queens,  and  after  the  egg  is  laid,  fill  the  cells 
with  royal  jelly,  in  place  of  ordinary  bee- 
bread.  After  she  is  done  flying  out,  sporting 
with  the  drones,  the  queen  rarely  ventures 
out  of  hive-bounds.  It  happens  sometimes, 
though,  that  her  subjects  rise  up  and  slay  her, 
or  that  in  some  other  way  she  is  destroyed. 
Then  if  there  are  young  queens  hatching, 
the  hive  stands  still,  waiting  for  them  to 
come  out  and  settle  the  succession  among 
themselves.  But  if  the  queen  should  be 


Insects  3  83 

taken  away  before  filling  the  royal  cells,  the 
workers  enlarge  ordinary  cells,  take  out  the 
bee-bread,  put  in  royal  jelly,  and  get  queens 
quite  up  to  standard  as  a  result. 

It  is  the  queen-bee,  young  or  old,  who  leads 
out  a  new  swarm.  If  several  queens  hatch 
simultaneously,  there  is  an  interval  of  chaos 
in  the  hive,  much  crawling  back  and  forth, 
humming,  buzzing,  and  stinging.  At  such 
times  bees  are  most  difficult  of  approach. 
By  and  by,  occultly,  affairs  seem  to  adjust 
themselves.  A  swarm  goes  off,  the  queen 
settles  in  place,  and  the  workers  in  mass  take 
the  superfluous  queens  and  kill  them,  then 
drag  them  outside  the  hive.  Bees  are  neater 
than  wax  in  their  housekeeping.  They  permit 
no  spilled  honey  to  remain,  neither  any  chips 
of  any  sort.  They  mass  themselves  thickly, 
and  with  fluttering  wings  fan  out  all  sorts  of 
trash. 

Since  the  queen  is  the  mother,  stocks  of 
bees  can  be  changed  completely  in  two  years 
by  the  introduction  of  new  queens.  Italian 
bees  are  said  to  sting  much  less,  and  make 
more  honey,  hence  are  high  in  favor.  Bee 
eggs  have  the  curious  property  of  partheno- 
genesis —  that  is  to  say,  they  will  hatch  even 
if  there  happens  to  have  been  no  drone  in  the 
hive. 

Honey  betrays   its  origin  even  more  than 


384  Next  to  the  Ground 

milk.  The  whitest,  richest,  finest  flavored 
of  all  honey  is  that  from  peach  blossoms. 
Next  comes  that  garnered  from  raspberry  and 
blackberries  in  bloom ;  after  that  the  product 
of  white  clover,  with  linden-bloom  honey  a 
very  close  second.  Buckwheat  makes  heavy 
yields  of  honey,  but  it  is  cloying  and  sickish- 
sweet.  Goldenrod  taints  fall  honey  with  a 
faint  weedy  taint.  Honey  ravaged  from  plums 
or  grapes  is  fine  and  flavorous,  though  not  very 
light.  The  trouble  with  such  bee-pasturage 
is  that  it  goes  to  the  head,  and  makes  the 
bees  for  the  time  too  convivially  inclined  to 
think  of  real  work. 

New  swarms  are  finicky  as  to  where  they 
will  settle.  Sometimes  they  go  inside  a  hive, 
stay  there  a  week,  and  begin  working  blithely, 
then  all  at  once  are  up  and  ofF.  Rubbing  a 
hive  inside  with  peach-tree  leaves  or  smoking 
it  lightly  with  sulphur  is  thought  to  make  a  new 
swarm  better  content.  In  flying,  a  swarm 
looks  like  a  small  brown  cloud,  careering, 
or,  more  properly,  rolling  just  above  the  tree- 
tops.  At  first  swarming  bees  settle  in  thick 
clumps  upon  anything  handy,  the  queen  in 
the  middle,  the  others  massed  all  over  her. 
Sometimes  the  mass  droops  in  a  long  blunt 
pendant  almost  like  an  icicle.  If  the  swarm 
comes  out  after  midday  it  is  likely  to  settle 
close  to  the  hive  and  stay  quiet  until  morning. 


Insects  385 

If  it  has  settled  upon  anything  detachable,  as 
a  tree  branch,  or  projecting  board,  bee-keepers 
spread  a  white  sheet  down  underneath,  place 
a  clean  hive  in  the  middle  of  the  sheet,  then 
saw  off  the  bough  or  the  board,  and  lower  it 
gently,  taking  care  not  to  disturb  the  bees. 
If  the  bees  cannot  be  thus  detached,  they  are 
sprinkled  and  swept  off.  After  a  little  those 
upon  the  outer  edge  begin  crawling  along  the 
sheet,  and  go  inside  the  hive.  They  may 
come  back  in  a  minute.  Commonly  there  are 
three  hours  of  running  to  and  fro.  If  at  last 
they  stay  inside,  the  hive  is  left  standing  until 
night,  then  moved  in  place  on  the  stand.  But 
the  bees  may  go  in  with  every  sign  of  satis- 
faction, then  all  at  once  swarm  out  again,  and 
whip  away  before  anybody  knows  it. 

Wild  bees  are  not  native  to  America,  but 
strays  from  civilization.  In  the  old  days  it  is 
said  the  wild  swarms  kept  twenty  miles  in  ad- 
vance of  the  pioneers.  The  Indians  said  when 
they  heard  them  humming  about  :  u  Here 
come  the  little  white  men  !"  A  wild  swarm, 
undisturbed,  with  plenty  of  pasture,  will  stay 
for  fifty  years  in  the  same  place,  filling  every 
crack  and  cranny  of  it  with  honey  and  brood 
comb.  A  dry  cave,  or  an  unused  garret  or 
belfry,  suits  them  to  a  nicety. 

Bee  superstitions  are  innumerable.  Old 
man  Shack  had  at  least  twenty  without  stop- 


386  Next  to  the  Ground 

ping  to  recollect.  For  instance,  it  was  seven 
kinds  of  bad  luck  to  buy  or  sell  bees,  excel- 
lent good  luck  to  steal  them,  and  lightning 
luck  —  that  is  the  most  unexpected  strokes 
of  it  —  to  have  a  stray  swarm  settle  on  your 
place,  with  nobody  ringing  bells  at  them  or 
throwing  up  clods  of  dirt.  Further,  bees 
would  be  sullen,  sting,  work  laggardly,  and  in 
the  end  run  away,  if  you  did  not  specially  tell 
them  when  any  body  died  or  was  born.  Neither 
would  they  thrive  if  you  forgot  to  give  them  a 
special  Easter  good-morrow  —  good-morning 
would  n't  do  in  the  least. 

The  people  at  White  Oaks  disputed  none 
of  this.  They  were  kindly  wise  enough  to 
understand  that  the  old  man's  beliefs  were  too 
ingrained  to  be  controvertible  by  mere  reason. 
Besides,  they  had  all  the  large  tolerance  of  the 
fields  —  which  teach,  as  nothing  else  can  do, 
that  there  are  more  things  than  have  ever  been 
mapped  and  bounded,  or  brought  to  book  in 
the  widest  or  the  narrowest  philosophies. 


THE    END 


M95635 


Q-tU 


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